Not a gun.
Worse, in a way.
A ring of blackened iron keys.
A thick flashlight.
A steel lockbox.
And on top of it, in a waterproof pouch, his medication, folded cash, copies of our identification, and the original deed to the house I thought had always been sitting safely in our bedroom drawer.
My blood went cold.
Not because I thought he meant to hurt anyone.
Because I suddenly understood that my husband had been preparing for betrayal longer than I had been willing to imagine it.
‘Forty years ago,’ he said, pressing the flashlight into my hand, ‘I promised myself no one would ever bury us in our own home.’
