Chapter 3

Thursday morning arrived with bright, deceptive sunshine.

Graham stood in the grand foyer, adjusting his silk tie in the mirror. He had spent the last three days playing the role of the exceptionally devoted father.

He knelt down to meet our son eye-to-eye.

"Three o'clock sharp," Graham said. He gripped Miles's small shoulders with absolute, manufactured sincerity. "The school science exhibition."

Miles clutched his backpack straps. He wanted so badly to believe it.

"I have my assistant blocking my entire afternoon," Graham promised. "I will be in the very first row, buddy. I swear on my life."

"Okay," Miles whispered.

Graham smiled. He was thrilled with his own ability to fix things so easily. He kissed my cheek and walked out the door to conquer the corporate world.

At 2:45 PM, I sat in the crowded school gymnasium. The folding chair to my right remained empty.

At 3:00 PM, the principal took the microphone.

I watched Miles stand proudly beside his solar system project. His eyes kept darting to the double doors at the back of the gym.

Every time a father walked in late, Miles stood a little taller. And every time the man turned out to be someone else, his shoulders dropped.

At 3:30 PM, my phone buzzed in my purse.

It was a text from Graham.

Mara, absolute disaster at the office. Board members flew in unexpectedly. I am so incredibly sorry. Take him out for ice cream. Buy him whatever he wants.

I stared at the screen. I felt a deep, crawling disgust at how effortlessly he could construct a lie.

I opened Instagram and went straight to Camille Arden's public profile. Her newest Story had been posted twelve minutes ago.

It was a photo taken inside a luxury jewelry boutique. A man's arm was visible in the frame, holding a velvet box. Peeking out from under the tailored cuff was Graham's custom-engraved watch.

The caption read: He always drops his busy schedule when I need spoiling.

He wasn't trapped in a boardroom with executives. He was buying diamonds for his mistress.

Meanwhile, his nine-year-old son stood in a stuffy gymnasium, waiting for a father who was never going to come.

When the exhibition ended, I walked over to Miles. He didn't ask where Graham was. He didn't cry.

He just quietly began folding up his display board.

"Let's go to the car," I said softly.

We drove in silence. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the leather seats.

"Mom," Miles said suddenly. He didn't look at me. He just stared out the window.

"Yes, baby?"

"I don't want to wait for him anymore."

His voice was hollow. It was stripped of all the childhood innocence he had woken up with this morning.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Miles said.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. "I know, Miles. We won't."

When we got home, I didn't yell. I didn't confront Graham when he inevitably walked through the door with a perfectly rehearsed apology.

I just walked upstairs, opened my laptop, and replied to Naomi Pierce's job offer.

Naomi. I accept the photography position. But I need you to draw up the contract under my maiden name. Mara Ellison.

Graham wanted a flawless, oblivious wife waiting for him in the dark. But he was about to come home to a ghost.