I cried in my husband’s arms at the airport as he boarded what he claimed was a two-year work assignment in Zurich.

I let it ring twice, watching the screen as though it might reveal the caller’s face if I stared hard enough.

On the third ring, I answered.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then a woman’s voice said, “Anne?”

It was quiet. Careful. Not young, not old. Maybe my age. Maybe a little older.

“Yes,” I said.

“You don’t know me.”

“That’s obvious.”

“I know this is frightening.”

A laugh escaped me, sharp and humorless. “You texted me a photo of my house and told me not to touch my own money. Frightening is one word for it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Who are you?”

A pause.

“My name is Grace.”

The name meant nothing to me.

“How do you know Lucas?”

“I don’t. Not really.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” she admitted. “It isn’t.”

I stood up again, unable to sit still. My eyes went to the study window. The curtains were open. Anyone outside could see me standing there, phone pressed to my ear, laptop glowing on the desk.

I walked over and pulled the curtains shut.