What Lurks Beneath My breath misted in front of me as I drove silently through the cold November morning. My husband sat in his seat, as still as the silence that surrounded us. I turned to look at him, "So, where did you say this place was again?" I inquired for the tenth time. I have never had reason to question my husband's directions before, but this time something felt off to me.
"It's a little past Putney. Don't you trust me?" His voice was mildly questioning, but as I stole a glance at him his eyes gave him away. I knew he was wondering why I didn't trust him, what, perhaps, I might think instead; that I might have an ulterior thought or suspicion of his words.
"No, I do," I lied. "I just have never been there so I'm a bit nervous we might go sailing past it. That's all." He knew my little reassurances were all just mumblings. Adjusting uncomfortably in his seat, he glanced longingly out the window, almost as