Chapter 3
At one the next afternoon, the rental agent brought the first couple into our home.
I was still taping a box in the kitchen when they began discussing where their couch would go.
Daniel followed them through the house, pointing out the new roof and renovated bathroom.
He talked about the primary bedroom, storage space, and private entrance as if this were simply another property waiting to earn money.
No one asked whether I had agreed to rent it out.
After they left, I pushed my last box toward the door. Daniel had packed two suits and a few shirts. No toiletries. No casual clothes.
“Where’s the rest of your stuff?”
“In the car.” He was answering a message. “I’m meeting an investor tonight. I may sleep at the office.”
I looked at his two bags. One was full. The other was almost empty.
“Before I give up anything else, I want to see the company accounts. Bank statements, unpaid invoices, and that jewelry purchase.”
Daniel closed the trunk and faced me.
“Nora, we need cash. We don’t need you pretending to be an auditor.”
“I used to handle the company books.”
“That was ten years ago. You wouldn’t understand them now.”
He pressed the basement key into my palm.
“I’ll explain when things settle down. For now, stop making this harder.”
Mark’s house was forty minutes north of ours. He wasn’t home. His sister let us in, pointed toward the basement stairs, and said extra blankets were stacked above the washing machine.
The basement had one narrow window near the ceiling. A folding bed stood two steps from the washer. The vent blew cold air, and a dark stain climbed one corner of the wall from the last rain.
Daniel set down my boxes without removing his coat.
“I’ll be back later.”
“You’re not staying for dinner?”
“The investor only has time tonight.”
He left before I finished making the bed.
I cleaned the water beside the washer and hung my clothes on a metal rack. One of Daniel’s coats slipped to the floor. When I picked it up, a receipt fell from the pocket.
It was from an upscale market outside the city.
Champagne. Steaks. Strawberries. Imported cheese. Two breakfast packages.
The total was $472.
The purchase had been made yesterday afternoon, shortly after I transferred him the money from my ring.
At the bottom was a delivery address: 18 Lake Hollow Road.
I searched for it on my phone. The address belonged to a lakefront neighborhood, but the property listing required an account to view.
Daniel could have been entertaining an investor. Four hundred dollars might be the price of keeping an important client.
I folded the receipt and put it in my wallet.
A little after ten, I saw a new Facebook post from Celeste Ward, Daniel’s finance director. I had met her twice at company events. She rarely posted anything personal.
That night, she shared a photograph of a stone fireplace.
Two wineglasses stood on the table beside a bottle of champagne and a white bowl filled with strawberries.
Her caption read:
Finally able to breathe.
I enlarged the picture.
A silver lighter sat near the edge of the table.
Daniel had used it to light our anniversary candles. I recognized the scratch along one side because I had put it there last year.
I took a screenshot and opened Celeste’s profile. The post had no location attached, but someone had asked if it was cold by the lake.
Celeste had replied with a smiling face.
Daniel returned at 1:40 in the morning.
I was awake on the folding bed, facing the wall. He removed his coat in the dark and silenced his phone.
The mattress dipped behind me.
When he placed a hand on my waist, I smelled perfume on the collar of his shirt.
It wasn’t mine.
And it didn’t belong in an office.