I sat in the back seat with my hands folded tightly on my lap, staring at my phone. The screen stayed dark, though I checked it repeatedly as if somehow, a message from him might pop up the second I stopped looking. 

When the sign for Los Angeles passed us by, my pulse began to race. I leaned forward a little, clutching the seat in front of me. 

“Harold.” That was the driver’s name. 

“Yes, ma’am?” he replied. 

“Before we go home… I want to see my husband.” 

He ...