At 10:47 that morning, Evelyn Mercer stepped out of a cab in front of an aging apartment building in Chicago’s Lincoln Square neighborhood. She had come home two weeks earlier than planned after spending four months overseeing the opening of a new company branch in Seattle.
She had not called Daniel, her husband, or Noah, her nineteen-year-old son. She wanted her return to be a surprise.
Inside one grocery bag were tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and a package of beef for the stew they both loved. Throughout the flight, she had pictured their expressions when she walked through the door and announced that, finally, they would all be eating together again.
But as soon as she reached the third floor, she sensed that something was wrong.
There was no music coming from the apartment. No television. No sound of Noah’s video games. No trace of Daniel talking on the phone. The corridor was so quiet that Evelyn could hear herself breathing.
She knocked three times.
“Daniel? Noah? It’s me.”
No one answered.
