The blizzard had already swallowed half of Chicago when Daniel Mercer pulled the SUV up outside Terminal 3 at O’Hare.
His wife, Claire, stared through the windshield at snow blowing almost horizontally across the road.
“Daniel, my flight was canceled three hours ago.”
His hands remained on the steering wheel.
“Then find a hotel.”
Claire slowly turned toward him.
“You drove all the way here to pick me up.”
“I drove here because you kept calling.”
After nineteen years of marriage, Claire knew the coldness in Daniel’s voice well.
But this was different.
