Chapter 2

I told myself, 'You saw wrong; maybe a relative, a coworker, coincidence.' But at home, staring at the ceiling, another voice insisted, 'You saw right.' His back, walk, and phone habit all matched. I didn't know what to believe.

At eight that night, I video called him like always. He answered with a smile, the familiar study behind him. "Babe," he said. "How was your day?"

"Not bad." I tried hard to keep my voice normal. "What about you? Still working late?"

"Just got home." He shifted his phone so I could see the bookshelf behind him. "I'm beat. It's hot as hell in Lakeview City lately. Even blasting the AC doesn't help."

"Really?" I stared at the screen. "Then drink more water. Don't make yourself sick."

"Don't worry." He smiled. "By the way, has work been busy for you lately?"

"It's been okay."

"Good. Once things calm down on my end, I'll come see you."

"Okay."

We talked for another ten minutes. He said his company was rushing a project, that takeout in Lakeview City was awful, and that he missed me. I'd heard every one of those lines countless times, and I'd believed every one of them too.

After we hung up, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I opened my phone and glanced at the good-night message he'd sent.

Then I opened the screenshot from the video call and zoomed in on the window behind him. Outside was a huge leafy tree blocking most of the glass. I froze. I'd seen that tree before.

The next morning, I detoured to work. Instead of the subway route, I took Riverside Avenue past Willow Park and stopped across the street.

Building 3 faced the entrance. Outside the first third-floor window on the left stood the same big tree, its leaves blocking most of the glass just like in the video.

The shape of the leaves, the angle of the branches, even the way the sunlight filtered through them all looked identical.

I stood there a long time, telling myself, 'Maybe I'm overthinking. Plenty of neighborhoods have trees like that; maybe Lakeview City just looks similar.' But the label, his back, and that tree stayed lodged in my heart.

At lunch, I called my best friend Sophie. "What is it?" she asked around a mouthful of food. "I'm eating."

"I need a favor. Can you help me look up an address?"

"What address?"

"Apartment 302 in Building 3 at Willow Park on 118 Riverside Avenue." I paused. "Help me find out who lives there."

"What happened? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just want to confirm something."

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end.

"Emily Brooks." Sophie set her fork down, her voice turning serious. "Do you think Michael's lying to you?"

I didn't say anything.

"Be honest."

"A little."

"About what, exactly?"

I told her about the shipping label, the familiar back, and the tree. She was quiet for a while, then said, "I'll ask around. I've got a friend in property management. Maybe they can find out."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet." She paused. "Emily, brace yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if what we find isn't what you want to hear... can you handle it?"

I gripped my phone and didn't answer.

At four that afternoon, Sophie called me back at last. "I found out," she said, her voice heavy enough to make my stomach drop.

"What did they say?"

"Apartment 302 in Building 3 at Willow Park is registered under Claire Bennett, female, thirty-one." Sophie hesitated. "But management said a couple lives there. The woman's name is Claire Bennett, and the man's surname is Reed."

My hand started shaking.

"What else?"

"The property office said they've been living there for years. At least four or five. They seem really close too. People often see them grocery shopping together or going on walks."

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

"Emily? Are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"Are you... okay?"

"I'm fine." I opened my eyes. "Thanks, Sophie."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet," I said. "I need to make sure one more time."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No." I took a deep breath. "I want to figure this out myself."

I hung up, my phone nearly slipping from my hand. That night, I didn't video-call Michael. I texted that I was exhausted and wanted to sleep early.

He replied instantly: [Okay, babe. Rest well. Good night. Love you.] He added a kiss emoji. Lying in bed, I stared at the message and suddenly felt sick.

I opened the weather app and searched Lakeview City. Clear today, 82 degrees, no rain. The past week showed clear, clear, cloudy, clear, clear, clear, clear.

Yet three days earlier he'd texted: [It rained in Lakeview City today. Take an umbrella. Don't get soaked.] The record said clear, 88 degrees. He had a girlfriend. For three years, he had one.