Chapter 1

My husband hated giving people rides.

After twelve hours at the hospital, he said he didn't have the energy to drive anywhere.

Then I found out he had driven another woman home 227 times.

I stared at the unfamiliar address on the navigation screen.

For one second, I told myself it was nothing.

Maybe a restaurant nearby.

Maybe a mistake.

Then I saw the words beneath it.

CLAIRE BENNETT — HOME.

Beneath it were two words.

Frequent destination.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

I knew Claire.

She was a doctor at Daniel's hospital. They worked the same shifts. At a staff dinner last year, someone had laughed and said Claire probably saw my husband more than I did.

Daniel had laughed.

"That's what happens when you work together."

I had laughed with everyone else.

Now her apartment was saved in his car like it belonged there.

I had only borrowed Daniel's car because mine was being repaired. That morning, he had caught a ride to work and left me his keys. He had reminded me to adjust the mirrors.

Nothing about handing me this car had worried him.

Maybe I had misunderstood.

I tapped the screen.

The navigation opened a list of completed trips.

Yesterday, 10:48 p.m.

Tuesday, 11:17 p.m.

Monday, 9:56 p.m.

I scrolled farther.

Her address appeared the week before. Then the week before that. Some trips ended after midnight.

I filtered the history by destination.

A number appeared at the top.

227 trips.

I stared at it.

Then I checked the date range.

The first trip was less than a year ago.

Daniel had driven to Claire's apartment 227 times.

My husband hated giving people rides.

That was what he had told me.

Last November, I worked late during a storm. The buses stopped running normally, and two drivers canceled on me.

The hospital was fifteen minutes away.

I called him.

He answered after three rings.

"Maya, I'm exhausted. I spend enough time driving for work. Can you please just get an Uber?"

I had apologized for asking.

Forty minutes later, I climbed into a stranger's car with water inside my shoes. When I got home, I took them off at the door and dried my hair downstairs so I wouldn't wake Daniel.

The next morning, I asked if he had slept well.

After that night, I stopped asking him for rides.

I carried an umbrella. I paid whatever the app charged. I told myself love meant understanding when someone was tired.

Now 227 completed trips sat in front of me.

Some ended after midnight. Several took him farther from home than my office ever had.

But Daniel was never too tired.

He was only too tired for me.

I picked up my phone.

There could be an excuse for one trip.

There could not be an excuse for 227.

My fingers had gone cold, but I photographed the screen. Then I exported the full history and opened the file to make sure every date had transferred.

Daniel called before I saved the second copy.

"Did you get the car started?"

"Yes."I looked through the windshield at our closed garage door."Do you ever drive people from the hospital home?"

He gave a tired sigh.

"Maybe once or twice if someone's stranded. But you know I hate being everyone's driver."

Once or twice.

I looked at 227.

"Of course," I said.

"I have rounds. Call me if the car acts up."

He hung up.

I saved the file one more time.

Then one date caught my eye.

Our sixth wedding anniversary.

That night, he had told me an emergency surgery would keep him late.

I had sent him a photograph of the table I'd set. Below it, I had written: Don't worry about me. Take your time.

He had replied with a heart.

I went back to the driving log.

12:09 a.m.—Claire Bennett's apartment.

I remembered wrapping our untouched cake.

At twelve, I had still been afraid my husband hadn't eaten.

Nine minutes later, he was at her door.