Chapter 2

When did I start to get suspicious?

It was about a year and a half ago.

It was a Wednesday, too. I made a last-minute change to a project and left work early. On my way home, I passed the market and thought about picking up a sea bass to steam for Claire.

I called her. "What do you want for dinner? I'm home early, so I'll cook for you."

She sounded a bit nervous. "Huh? Why are you home so soon? I have to work overtime tonight, so I'll probably be back late. Don't wait for me to eat."

The background was strangely silent.

Working late, was she? Her department was in the downtown business tower, and at that hour, there should have been some noise behind her on the line.

I just shrugged it off, said "Okay," and hung up.

But I kept it in mind.

After that, I started keeping an eye out and noticed she was always getting home late on Wednesdays.

Sometimes it was 7:30, sometimes 8:00.

And every time, she'd have a new excuse like having department dinner, girls' night out, yoga class.

But there was always one thing. Her eyes looked a little swollen every time she got home, as though she'd been crying.

Funny thing about gut instinct, it was weird.

Sometimes a person had no shred of evidence and knew something was off.

I didn't confront her.

Instead, I started digging.

First, I started digging through our bank records.

We had a joint account, both our paychecks went in, bills came out, and whatever was left, we just saved.

I checked the mobile banking history and noticed a bunch of small transfers.

The recipient was Susan Stone.

I had no clue who that was.

Then I went through her phone.

Not really snooping, just peeked at her messaging while she was in the shower.

The chat history was squeaky clean, but she forgot to delete her messaging step-tracker records.

Every Wednesday, her steps would suddenly shoot up between 3 and 5 PM, always pinging her at Central City Medical Center.

A chill ran down my spine.

But I didn't confront her.

I needed to figure out what she was really doing there.

I dropped 50 thousand dollars on a private investigator.

He was a pro, had everything figured out in just a month.

The day he handed me the file, I sat in my car and stared at it for two hours straight.

In the photos, Claire was sitting on a bench in the hospital hallway, wearing a light blue coat.

Next to her was a man, skinny and sallow-faced, sprawled out on the bench with hollow eyes.

Even so, the features of his younger face still came through, with heavy brows and a sharp nose. He'd clearly been good-looking once.

It was Michael Stone.

He was Claire's first love from college.

Back then, he was the campus heartthrob, the guy everyone couldn't stop talking about.

In the photo, Claire was peeling an apple for him, her smile so tender it almost hurt to look at.

I recognized that smile.

She used to smile at me just like that when we were together.

But after that, it was gone.

I figured it was just us settling into that old married couple routine.

It turned out, she was giving that smile to someone else.

The detective even managed to snag a recording.

It was Claire and Susan talking in the hospital café downstairs.

Susan's voice sounded old and trembling, almost breaking from tears. "Claire, Michael's had such a rough life. He messed up back then, but he really regrets it now."

Claire's voice was barely above a whisper. "Please don't cry, Mrs. Stone. I was the one who left first. Now that Michael's like this, I can't just walk away from him."

"And what about your husband?" Susan asked.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Stone. When the time is right, I'll go home and end things with my husband. I'll stay with Michael through his final days, and I owe him that," Claire said.

I sat in my car, listening to that recording three times over.

Then I turned off my phone and just stared at the ceiling for a long time.

She owed him.

She told Susan she was staying with Michael because she felt she owed him.

Back then, when she caught Michael cheating, she ran to me in tears.

I was the one who picked up the pieces for her. I chased after her for two years, and after we got married, I did everything I could to make her happy.

Eight years passed, and after everything, I got line about how she owed him.

Fine.

That was just fine.

After that day, I did two things.

First, I moved all the money out of our joint account, leaving just enough for daily expenses.

Second, I called Edison and told him to get the ball rolling on the lawsuit for the marital asset transfers.

And then I kept playing the role of the gentle, perfect husband.

I cooked, did the dishes, and picked her up from work.

When she came home late on Wednesdays, I'd greet her with a smile and say, "Thanks," then bring her a bowl of hot soup.

When she looked at me, there was guilt in her eyes, but also a kind of peace, like she was completely at ease.

That sense of ease made me sick.

She shamelessly enjoyed everything I did for her, then turned around and went to take care of another man without a second thought.

But I held it in.

Because I was waiting.

I was waiting for her to ask for a divorce herself.

I wanted her to walk away on her own, not for me to kick her out.

That way, I'd be in the clear, legally and morally.

For three whole months, I waited in silence.

And now, the day I'd been waiting for had finally come.