I find the gun while looking for our tax documents.It's hidden in the back of his home office closet, behind a false panel I only discovered because I dropped my phone and it slid under the shelving unit. When I reached back to grab it, my fingers brushed against something that felt wrong, a seam that shouldn't be there, and curiosity made me investigate further.Now I'm sitting on the floor of my husband's office, staring at a black metal case that contains a disassembled rifle, three handguns, and enough ammunition to start a small war. There are also passports, five of them, each with Konstantin's face and a different name. Cash in multiple currencies. And a small leather notebook filled with dates, locations, and what can only be described as payment records.My husband is not, as I've believed for the past two years, a corporate consultant who travels frequently for boring meetings in boring cities.My husband is a killer.I should be terrified. I should be calling the police, p
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