Chapter 4

There was a pair of high heels stuffed on the very bottom shelf of the shoe rack.

They were a size 6. I wear a size 8.

There was an unopened pack of sanitary pads on the balcony. Not my brand.

Her trace was everywhere in this house.

This wasn't the result of just a couple of days. She wasn't just "staying over for a few days." She'd been living here for a long time.

That night, Patrick came home. He brought a bouquet of flowers.

I looked at the bouquet of lilies. He knew I loved lilies.

He set the flowers on the table and said, "Maisey, I was wrong the other day. I'm sorry."

He sat down and looked at me, his face showing just the right amount of guilt.

"She really is just a friend. Her lease ended recently, and she had nowhere to stay, so she crashed at our place for a few days. She's gone now. It won't happen again." He sounded sincere.

If I hadn't checked those transfer records, I might have actually believed him.

"And what about the money you've been sending for the past two years?" I pressed.

Patrick's gaze wavered for a moment.

He tried to play dumb. "What transfers?"

"You've been sending Penelope anywhere from 700 to 2,700 dollars every month for two years. Want to do the math?"

Patrick looked at me and fell silent for a long time.

Then he switched tactics.

"Alright, I'll be honest with you," he said.

He let out a sigh. "Yeah, we were involved for a while, but that's all in the past. She's been having a rough time lately, so I helped her out. It won't happen again."

Over, huh? As if. She was lounging in my pajamas in my house.

I let it go and changed the subject.

"Have you been in touch with a realtor about the house lately?" I asked.

Patrick's expression shifted. It was barely noticeable, but I caught it.

He asked, "What do you mean?"

I replied, "I saw the call from the realtor in your call log. Were you asking about the house price, or trying to get something done?"

His lips twitched.

"I was just checking the market, that's all," he said after a moment.

I asked, "Are you trying to get me to put your name on the house?"

Patrick went quiet. He'd brought it up about a month ago.

"Maisey, we've been married for years. It doesn't feel right that only your name is on the property deed. What if we need to handle something in the future? It could be a hassle," he'd said.

I hadn't thought much of it at the time.

But I understood. It wasn't about "inconvenience." He was scheming.

He added his name, then sold it, or took half if we ever got divorced.

It was my house. I paid for it.

And yet, he wanted to take half of my house and start a life with Penelope.

I was completely calm. It wasn't an act. I was genuinely calm.

I was thinking that this guy wasn't just cheating. He was scheming against me.

Patrick let the other woman move in, decided I was just in the way, and wanted me gone, not because he'd gone crazy.

No, in his grand plan, this house was never meant to be mine.

I looked at him. He was still rambling on, trying to justify himself.

I wasn't listening to him anymore. My mind was elsewhere.

The property deed was in my drawer. It had only my name on it.

The down payment came from my parents and my own savings, all before we got married.

Even though we'd been paying the mortgage together after we got married, his share was less than twenty percent of the total.

Fraser told me that if I filed for divorce, the most Patrick could get would be a payout based on his portion of the mortgage payments, and the house would almost definitely be awarded to me.

But if he got his name on the deed, that would be a whole different story.

Patrick wasn't stupid. He was racing against time. He wanted to get his name on the deed before I caught on.

Unfortunately for him, he was too slow.

I picked up the bouquet of lilies from the table and put it in a vase.

"The flowers are nice," I said.

He let out a sigh of relief.

He thought I believed him. He thought some flowers and an apology would fix everything.

That was how it had always been these past eight years.

Every time Patrick messed up, some flowers and a "won't happen again" were all it took.

He was used to getting away with it. He thought I'd always believe him.

That night, he went to take a shower.

I stood on the balcony.

Down below, people were out walking their dogs in the courtyard.

I sent Lucy a message: [Can you recommend a reliable lawyer?]

Lucy texted back almost instantly: [Fraser Murphy. My sister-in-law hired him for her divorce. I'll send you his number.]

I saved his number. Then I turned off my phone.

The wind was wild. The leaves of the houseplant on the balcony whipped around, making a loud, restless noise.

I bought this place, so why should I have to leave?

The next day at noon, I took half a day off work to meet with Fraser.

Fraser was in his forties, wearing glasses, and his desk was piled high with documents.

I laid out the whole situation for him.

After I finished, he asked, "Whose name is on the deed?"

"It's just my name," I answered.

"Where did the down payment come from?" Fraser asked.

I said, "My own savings from before the marriage, and my parents helped out too. I have bank transfer records."

He asked, "Who's been paying the mortgage since you got married?"

I replied, "Mostly me. He contributed less than twenty percent of the total. I have bank statements."