Chapter 3

I was cleaning out Mark's car when I found it. The police had finally released his vehicle from impound—what was left of it after they'd pulled it from the river. The insurance company wanted to inspect it before declaring it a total loss, so here I was, removing personal items from a car that still held the faint scent of my dead husband's cologne.

My fingers trembled as I opened the glove compartment. Registration papers, insurance cards, a handful of gas station receipts—the mundane artifacts of a life now ended. But there, tucked beneath the vehicle manual, was something that didn't belong: a sleek black phone I'd never seen before.

My heart stuttered as I picked it up. The screen was cracked from the impact of the crash, but when I pressed the power button, it flickered to life. No password protection. No barriers between me and whatever secrets it held.

I slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my legs despite the spring warmth. For a moment, I just stared at the home screen, my thumb hovering over the messaging app. Did I really want to know more? Wasn't Detective Miller's explanation enough?

But I couldn't stop myself. I tapped the icon, and a year's worth of messages between Mark and Eleanor Martinez unfurled before me.

*Miss you already. Last night was incredible.*

*Can't wait to see you again. Meeting ran late, but I'll make it up to you.*

*Told K I'm working late. Can be at your place by 8.*

K. That was me. Reduced to a single initial in my husband's secret life.

I scrolled through months of exchanges, each message driving the knife deeper. There were photos, too—intimate moments I'd never been part of. Eleanor's face smiling at the camera, her dark hair cascading over bare shoulders. Mark's hand intertwined with hers against restaurant tablecloths I didn't recognize.

A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I barely managed to push the car door open before emptying the contents of my stomach onto the impound lot's gravel. One hand pressed against my still-flat abdomen—a protective gesture that had become instinctual—while the other clutched the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and looked back at the screen. The last message was from the night of the accident.

*On my way. Can't wait to see you. xo*

Sent at 7:42 PM. While I was setting the table with our wedding china, lighting candles, preparing to tell him about our baby.

I turned off the phone and slipped it into my pocket. There was nothing more I needed to see.

---

The Riverside Bridge stood stark against the gray sky, its metal arches spanning the churning waters below. Yellow police tape still fluttered from one section of the guardrail—the point where Mark's car had broken through and plunged into the river.

I don't know why I came here. Some misguided search for closure, perhaps. Or maybe just to make it real. Because despite the funeral, despite the condolences and the empty bed, part of me still couldn't believe Mark was gone. That our life together had ended so abruptly, so completely.

I parked my car in a small lot nearby and walked to the bridge, my steps heavy. A light rain had started to fall, beading on my jacket and dampening my hair. It seemed fitting somehow—this gray day, this somber place.

I approached the damaged section of guardrail slowly. Someone had placed flowers there—a small bouquet of white lilies now wilting in the rain. For Mark? For Eleanor? For both of them? I didn't know, and it didn't matter.

Leaning against the intact portion of the railing, I stared down at the dark water below. Had Mark been conscious when the car hit the surface? Had he thought of me in those final moments, or was his last thought of her?

The rain fell harder now, mingling with the tears on my face. I felt a strange, discordant symphony of emotions—grief for the husband I'd lost, rage at his betrayal, a hollowed-out emptiness when I thought of our future that would never be, and beneath it all, a fierce, protective love for the child growing inside me.

"I don't know how to forgive you," I whispered to the river, to Mark, to the ghost of what we'd been. "I don't know if I even should."

The wind carried my words away, offering no answers. Just the steady sound of rain on water and the distant rumble of traffic crossing the bridge behind me.

---

I was struggling with three grocery bags when I first met him. The elevator in our building was out of service—again—and I was halfway up the second flight of stairs when one of the paper bags began to tear, oranges threatening to spill onto the steps.

"Let me help you with that."

The voice came from above me—warm, with a slight accent I couldn't immediately place. I looked up to see a man descending the stairs, his hand already outstretched toward my precarious groceries.

"Thank you," I managed, relief flooding through me as he took the heaviest bag. "These stairs are becoming my nemesis lately."

"I just moved in yesterday, and already I'm questioning my decision to take a third-floor apartment," he said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm Isaac, by the way. Isaac Martinez. Apartment 3B."

"Katherine White," I replied. "3A. Looks like we're neighbors."

Up close, I could see he was about my age, maybe a few years older. Tall, with warm brown eyes and the kind of features that seemed both strong and gentle simultaneously. He carried my grocery bag with ease as we continued up the stairs.

"I noticed the moving truck yesterday," I said, making conversation to fill the silence. "Welcome to the building."

"Thank you. It's a fresh start for me." Something in his tone shifted, a shadow passing briefly across his face. "I lost my wife six months ago. Cancer. The old place had too many memories."

"I'm so sorry," I said, the words automatic but sincere. I knew all too well the weight of an empty apartment, the echo of absence in every room.

We reached my door, and I fumbled for my keys, balancing the remaining grocery bags.

"Here, let me hold those while you unlock it," Isaac offered, taking the other bags. As I turned the key, I caught him glancing at my stomach—the slight swell now visible beneath my fitted sweater.

"Congratulations," he said softly, nodding toward my abdomen. "When are you due?"

I hesitated. Few people knew about the baby yet—just my mother and a couple of close friends. But something about Isaac's gentle demeanor made it easy to share.

"Late October," I replied, pushing the door open. "Thank you again for your help. These stairs are getting more challenging every day."

"Anytime," he said, setting the bags on my counter just inside the door. "That's what neighbors are for, right?"

As he turned to leave, I noticed the genuine warmth in his smile. It had been weeks since I'd had a conversation that didn't revolve around my loss, weeks since someone had looked at me with something other than pity.

"Isaac," I called as he reached the hallway. "Would you like some coffee? As a thank you. And a welcome to the building."

He paused, seeming to consider the offer carefully before nodding. "I'd like that, Katherine. Thank you."

And just like that, a small crack appeared in the wall of isolation I'd built around myself since Mark's death. A tiny opening that let in a sliver of light.