Martha was hyperventilating. Her entire life was a lie. The “business trips,” the cash payments for their cars, his refusal to ever be photographed for social media… it all made sense now.
Suddenly, she heard a sound from upstairs. The front door opening.
“Martha? Honey, I’m home early!”
It was Greg.
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She was trapped underground. The trapdoor was open. He would see the rug moved. He would see the hole.
She heard his heavy footsteps entering the library. Then, silence. He had seen it.
“Martha?” His voice wasn’t warm anymore. It was cold. Dead.
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