The kind of account that could put our little agency on firmer ground and maybe, just maybe, put me on the radar for the promotion Nick had been dangling in front of me for months.
I had prepared for that meeting like my future depended on it.
Because in some ways, it did.
The night before, after the girls were asleep, I sat at the dining room table with my laptop open and revised my slides until nearly midnight.
Emily came down once in her robe and asked if I was ever coming to bed.
“Soon,” I told her.
She smiled in that tired, loving way wives do when they know you’re chasing something bigger than the moment.
“Don’t miss your own funeral,” she said.
I laughed.
Then I kept working.
I remember standing on the back porch around eleven-thirty, practicing the opening lines quietly to myself while the neighborhood sat dark and still.
I wanted it perfect.
Not polished-perfect.
Human-perfect.
Strong.
Clear.
Confident.
The kind of pitch that made people feel, not just think.
By six the next morning, I was up again.
I showered.
I printed backup copies.
I rechecked the numbers.
Emily was already in the kitchen packing lunches, and I helped make eggs while Claire searched for her library book and Maddie insisted she could wear sandals even though the morning was cold.
It was all so normal.
That’s what kills me.
Disaster almost never announces itself.
It walks right into ordinary life and sits down at your table like it belongs there.
At around seven-thirty, I kissed Emily, kissed both girls, grabbed my travel mug, and headed out.
My office was barely ten minutes away.
Even if traffic caught one light wrong, I’d still make it by eight.
I’d made the same drive half asleep, half sick, half buried under stress and still gotten there on time.
I remember feeling calm.
Ready.
Focused.
I had that good kind of nerves in my stomach, the kind that usually means you care.
Then I saw her.
At first, she was just another figure on the side of the road near the stretch by the old strip mall.
