Chapter 4

I stood motionless beside Audrey's vanity as the front door clicked shut downstairs.

Four buttons beeped in the foyer. The entry chime stopped.

Footsteps crossed the hardwood.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, grabbed the bundle of stripped sheets, and stepped into the short corridor between the bedroom and the laundry room.

Through the narrow gap between the door and its frame, I could see into the mudroom.

Grant dropped a set of keys into the ceramic bowl by the entrance.

He didn't look tired. He wore the navy quarter-zip he usually wore to client dinners, his overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

He unzipped the bag, set a pair of running shoes on the bottom shelf of the rack, zipped the canvas shut again, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

I pulled the laundry room door nearly closed, leaving only a half-inch seam.

Grant walked past the doorway, leaned against the kitchen counter, and raised the phone to his ear.

Inside my pocket, against my hip, my phone gave a single, muffled vibration.

I pressed my palm flat over the denim.

Grant's head turned toward the laundry room.

He watched the half-closed door, his eyes fixed on the narrow seam of shadow.

Then my recorded greeting began in his ear. His attention returned to the patio doors, his gaze drifting out into the backyard.

He waited for the beep.

"Hey, Maren," he said. "The Salem client pushed our meeting to tomorrow morning. I'm staying another night."

His voice was smooth and unhurried. The day before, that same calm voice had promised Willa ice cream and Bunny Moon. Now he used it to build another night in Salem.

"Put Willa to bed," he continued, looking through the patio doors. "I'll drive home after breakfast tomorrow."

He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and picked up his overnight bag.

His footsteps moved up the stairs, heavy and familiar. A door closed somewhere above me.

He had put away his keys and shoes without looking. Audrey's house already had a place for him. Watching him, I understood why she had left the Kauai album in plain sight.

I was hiding inside a life he had built while telling me he was working.

I checked the time on my screen. It was two minutes past noon.

My four hours were over.

The kitchen and bathrooms were finished, and fresh sheets covered Audrey's bed. The dirty linens were the last item on her list.

I loaded them into the washer, started the cycle, and wiped a stray drop of detergent from the lid with my cleaning cloth.

Rosa was at my apartment with Willa. She had agreed to stay until one, but her bakery shift started at two. The drive home took nearly forty minutes.

If I kept her waiting, Rosa would have to choose between leaving for work on time and staying with my daughter.

I needed to go.

I walked into the kitchen.

On the kitchen island sat an envelope with MAREN written across the front in blue ink.

I opened the envelope.

Ten twenty-dollar bills. The full amount Audrey owed me.

Beside the envelope lay a crisp twenty-dollar bill and a yellow sticky note:

Get your little girl something nice. Thank you, Maren.

The extra bill felt different from the payment in the envelope.

The note was probably meant kindly. Audrey had no idea she was tipping her husband's wife or that the money would buy dry socks for the daughter he kept hidden from her.

I wanted to leave it on the stone.

Then I pictured the split in Willa's yellow boot and the wet crescent it left on her sock after recess. Leaving the money would not punish Audrey. It would punish Willa.

I folded the bill, slid it into my front pocket, and walked back toward the mudroom.

Grant's brown leather jacket still hung from the center hook.

Taking it would warn him that someone had recognized it. I needed him to believe I had noticed nothing.

I collected my caddy from the corner office, crossed to the side entrance, and eased the heavy door open. I pulled the handle back until the latch caught without a click.

Cold mist settled on my face as I crossed the driveway.

I set the caddy on the back floorboard of my Civic, climbed behind the wheel, and locked both doors.

I set my phone on the dashboard. One missed call and a new voicemail waited on the screen: Grant (1).

I opened our message thread.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could ask how Salem was. I could send him the Kauai photograph and demand an answer before he came back downstairs.

I locked the screen instead.

I wanted him home, standing in our kitchen, when I asked him where he had been the day Willa was born.

I put the car in reverse, backed out onto Aldercrest Drive, and drove home to wait for my husband to return from Salem.