Every morning at 8:30 Ruth Gibbons kisses her husband and son goodbye, and sets off for work.
Every evening at 5pm, she finishes work, texts 'leaving now' to her husband Matthew, and begins her walk home.
Every night at 5:40 she arrives home, kisses her husband and son, and has dinner with her family.
Except tonight.


Matthew thought he had a pretty normal life. A nice home, a happy marriage, a beautiful son, and a job he enjoys.

Then it all changed.


He informs the police that Ruth has not returned home, but decides to search for her himself as well. His first call is to her place of work, where to his disbelief nobody has heard of her.

He begins to look further, and what he finds causes him to doubt everything he thought he knew about his wife, and to question his own sanity…


A COUPLE OF EXCERPTS OF “SHE’S NOT COMING HOME”…

The nearest gas station was an Exxon Mobil outlet on Flatbush. Matt filled up, and after paying, pulled over next to the air tower. Switched off the engine and dialled his parents’ number. His father answered.
‘Oh, Matt it’s you. Where are you, son?’
‘I’m still in New York. I’ve just picked up the car, and I’m about to -’
‘Matt, I, er - look, speak to your mother, will you?’
His father left him holding. Matt frowned: his father sounded different this morning.
‘Matt, where are you?’ asked his mother. Her voice sounded shaky.
‘I’m still in New York, just about to start the journey back. Mom, I’ve found out that -’
‘Matt, listen. Something’s happened. It’s Nathan.’
Matt sat up. ‘Nathan? Why? What’s happened?’
‘We’d been into town. We got back an hour or so. I left him playing in the yard.’
‘Mom, what’s happened?’
His mother’s voice started to quiver as she spoke.
‘We can’t find him anywhere.’

***

Matt nodded, as she unlocked the outer door and let him in. She led him through to her lounge. The inside of the house was just as neat and tidy as outside. There were floral pictures on the wall as he followed her, and two vases of flowers, one on a lace mat on the dining table, the other also on a lace mat but on a bureau. She turned round to him.
‘Do – do you have a picture of your wife?’ she asked, somewhat hesitantly. Matt nodded and took out his wallet. He showed her a small picture he kept in there.
She swallowed. Looked around the room, then said, ‘Wait here, please.’
Matt nodded again while she left the room. She returned a few moments later with a picture. It had a flap on the back, so must have been standing on something. She showed it to Matt. It was a black and white photograph of a dark haired woman sitting at a round glass table, the sort one found outside a bar or a restaurant. She was holding a glass of wine. Matt felt his face flush and a nervous feeling in his stomach as he stared at the woman in the photograph: it was a younger version of Ruth. He turned to Elisabeth Dubois.
‘But… I don’t understand… Who…?’
‘That’s my daughter, Mr Gibbons. That photograph was taken three years ago. Her name was Ruth too.’
‘Three…? I still don’t understand. This is – this is…’
‘My daughter and your wife can’t be the same person. Two weeks after that photograph was taken, my daughter was killed in a car crash.’

[The story has been edited again, to remove the typos which were referred to in some of the reviews.]