Chapter 1

Someone had changed the code on my front door.

On the third day of my business trip, I got a notification from the property management app: [Your smart lock code has been changed.]

I read it three times to make sure I wasn't imagining things.

I called David Clark.

He said, "Huh? I didn't change it. Maybe it's just a system glitch."

I didn't say anything.

I hung up and canceled my flight for tomorrow.

Then I booked a ticket for tonight.

System glitch, huh?

I wanted to see what kind of system glitch this really was.

*****

At 1 a.m., I stood in front of my own door.

The motion-activated lights in the hallway flickered on, casting a harsh, ghostly glow.

I entered the code.

The screen flashed an error.

I tried again.

It came back wrong again.

I took a deep breath and pressed my finger to the sensor.

The lock beeped once.

The door opened.

David had changed the code, but he couldn't touch my fingerprint, because the lock was registered in my name and mine alone.

I didn't bother turning on the entryway light.

But I caught a smell in the air the moment I stepped inside.

It wasn't the usual scent of my home.

It was perfume.

It was sickly sweet and heavy with jasmine.

I never wore anything scented.

I felt for the light switch and pressed it.

The lights came on.

I stood in the entryway, staring at the living room.

And then I froze.

There were photos hanging on the wall.

There were so many of them.

But none of them were mine.

On the wall behind the couch, there were four picture frames.

Every single one featured the same woman.

She had long hair, a wide smile, and dimples she knew how to use.

Some were selfies of her alone.

Others showed her cozying up with David.

They had posed at a restaurant, at the beach, at the mall, and in this living room, right where I was standing.

She was stretched out on my couch with her head tilted, smiling, and behind her were the curtains I picked, the coffee table I bought, and the floor lamp I spent a whole month's paycheck on.

I turned to look at the TV stand.

Then I looked at the wedding photo of David and me.

It was still there.

But someone had turned it around.

The picture faced the wall with the stand jutting out behind it, like something nobody wanted anymore.

I walked into the bedroom.

Someone had changed the sheets.

The gray cotton set I picked out was gone, replaced by a pink floral one.

There were two pillows on the bed.

A long strand of hair lay on the left pillow.

It definitely wasn't mine.

I opened the closet.

David's clothes were on the left.

The right side held clothes I had never seen before.

Not a single piece was mine.

There were floral dresses, lace tops, and knit cardigans.

Every one of them belonged to another woman.

My clothes were shoved into the far corner, stacked up like unwanted junk.

The vanity was worse.

All my makeup was gone.

A whole new set had taken its place, from a brand I didn't recognize.

There was lip gloss, an eyeshadow palette, foundation, and a curling iron.

A bottle of perfume sat right next to them.

That was the smell I had walked into. Jasmine.

There was a sticky note on the fridge.

It was pink, written in cute, rounded letters.

[Babe, strawberries are on the second shelf. Already washed, so help yourself!]

A little heart was drawn at the end.

I stood in front of the fridge, staring at that sticky note.

I kept staring at it for a long time.

She had called him babe.

Strawberries had been washed and were waiting for him.

And a little heart had been drawn at the end of it.

This was my home.

I paid the 230 thousand dollar down payment myself.

I paid the seventy-five thousand dollars in renovations myself.

The mortgage ran 3,300 dollars a month, and I covered 2,300 dollars of it.

Every brick, every tile, and every inch of those walls had been paid for with money I earned through overtime, business trips, and late nights.

And now, the walls were covered with someone else's photos.

Another woman's sheets were on my bed.

Her clothes had taken over my closet.

Her handwriting was stuck to my fridge.

My wedding photo had been flipped around, face to the wall.

I stood in the middle of the living room, taking it all in again.

Then I walked over to the wall behind the couch and picked up one of the picture frames.

I flipped it over.

There was a little card stuck to the back, handwritten:

[Happy two-year anniversary. Your Emmy.]

Two-year anniversary.

Not two months.

Not six months.

A full two years.

I had been married to David for three years.

He had been cheating for two of them.

So she had been in the picture since our first year of marriage.

I set the frame down.

My hands were steady.

I was surprisingly calm.

I didn't cry.

I didn't throw or break anything.

I didn't freak out.

There was only one thing on my mind.

Evidence. I needed evidence.

I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures.

I photographed every wall.

I got each of the four frames from two angles.

I got the wedding photo where it hung, face to the wall.

The pink sheets and the long hair on the pillow went into the camera roll next.

Then came the floral dresses hanging in my closet.

After that I shot the vanity, buried under makeup that wasn't mine.

The last picture I took was the sticky note on the fridge.

I ended up with 47 photos.

I walked over to the door.

I stood there and looked at the lock for a while.

He had changed the code, but he had never been able to touch the fingerprint.

Resetting a fingerprint took the owner's ID at the management office.

The owner was me.

So he could lock me out of a keypad, and that was the whole extent of his power here.

He could move another woman into this apartment, but he could never make it his.

I quietly closed the door.

I stood in the hallway.

It was 2 a.m., and the whole building was dead quiet.

I didn't stay here tonight.

I checked into the hotel next door.

I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

One thought kept circling.

It had been two years.

He had looked me in the face and lied for two of the three years we had been married.