As the door creaked open, the sun’s rays streamed into the dimly lit room, and what I initially perceived as shadows slowly took form. I stood at the threshold of our cozy country house, the very essence of our weekend retreats, feeling as if I had just stepped into an alternate reality. The sight before me was unsettling and surreal, shaking me to the core.
In the middle of the living room, there were stacks of old, dusty books arranged in chaotic piles, some of which were toppling over onto the floor. Maps were strewn across the coffee table, marked with red circles and cryptic annotations. The walls, usually adorned with serene landscape paintings, were now plastered with newspaper clippings and photographs. It was as if our beloved country house had been transformed into a conspiracy theorist’s headquarters.
Heart pounding, I moved closer to inspect what seemed to be the centerpiece of this bewildering display: a large corkboard covered with string connecting various pictures and articles. Some of the faces in the photographs were familiar — colleagues of my husband, friends, and even some strangers. The articles were about unsolved crimes, mysterious disappearances, and local legends. It dawned on me that my husband was embroiled in something far more complex and potentially dangerous than an extramarital affair.
“But why the secrecy?” I pressed, the sting of betrayal still fresh. “Why keep this from me?”
