That's Not Tanner

Bailey

Tanner didn’t come home last night.

It’s evident as soon as I step through the front door after my night shift at the Wilson’s. At barely past 6:00 in the morning, I should hear him snoring away or bustling in the kitchen getting breakfast ready, but my ears are met only with silence.

“Tanner?” I call, even though I know in my bones that there’s nobody here to answer.

Unease creeps beneath my skin as I hang up my purse on the hook beside the door and kick off my shoes. There’s still no movement in the depths of our home, and as I wander from room to room, I realize that nothing’s changed since I left the night before. The bed’s in disarray, the sheets tangled and the comforter crumpled halfway onto the floor. The dishes in the sink are untouched, food in the fridge uneaten. Emptiness hangs in the air, vacant and suffocating.

Where could he be?

I stop in the doorway to the bedroom. Even my phone is still on the bedside table, plugged into the outlet. After it kept playing that h