Chapter 2
Franklin spent half an hour packing, stuffing his clothes in haphazardly, and almost couldn't zip the suitcase shut.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching him, and suddenly the whole scene felt strange.
After five years of marriage, I realized I'd never seen him pack his own suitcase before.
"Franklin," I said.
"Yeah?" he answered.
"Who is Hallie Kennedy?" I asked.
His hand paused on the zipper. It was just for a second, and he kept pulling.
"I have no idea who she is," Franklin replied.
"She's been in first class on every flight you've piloted for the past six months," I said.
Franklin finally turned to face me, looking completely unfazed.
"With so many passengers, how could I know them all? Some folks just prefer the same flights. It's pretty normal," he said.
He grabbed his suitcase and left without another word.
As Franklin walked past me, I caught a whiff of a cologne I'd never smelled before.
It wasn't my scent.
I use another body lotion—59 dollars a bottle.
The fragrance on him was woody, rich, and intense.
I went around the perfume counters at the mall, sniffing every bottle I could find.
Jo Malone Oud & Myrrh Cologne—it was 250 dollars for 30ml.
Franklin had never been the type to wear cologne.
I lingered at the counter for ten minutes before the salesgirl bounced over, all friendly.
"Hey, this one's for both guys and girls, but honestly, most people who buy it are women," she said.
"Getting it for your boyfriend?" she asked. "Some do, but honestly, most just use it themselves."
I gave her a smile, didn't buy anything, and turned to leave.
That night, Franklin's mother, Nova Bailey, called. "Arianna, Franklin said you two had an argument?"
"We didn't fight," I said.
"Oh, honey, no matter what happened, can't you cut him some slack? You know how stressful his job is," Nova said.
"Nova, he's the one giving me the silent treatment, not the other way around," I said.
"You know how guys are—fragile egos. If you just let it go and be the bigger person, this whole thing will blow over," Nova said.
"He asked me to move his flight up in the queue at the tower. That's against the rules. I can't do that," I said.
There was a pause on the other end.
"You're just too uptight. It's not even a big deal. Why can't you be a little flexible? He's your husband, you know," Nova said.
"I can't just bend the rules on this," I replied.
"You just never listen," Nova sighed.
She hung up.
I set my phone down, opened my laptop, and pulled up Franklin's flight roster for the past year.
I really didn't know until I looked.
He'd flown the Velmberg to Korvburg route twelve times over the past six months.
At most, a pilot would fly the same route twice a month under normal scheduling.
But he'd flown that route three, four, even five times in a single month.
The shift records showed he'd swapped shifts with his coworkers at least seven times.
And every single swap was just so he could fly the Velmberg to Korvburg route.
I dug into his leave records, too.
Every time he flew to Korvburg, he touched down at 2 PM.
By the rules, he could hop on a company flight back to base that same day, or crash at the crew hotel and head home the next morning.
But every single time, he always picked staying overnight.
There were twelve times, twelve extra nights.
I pulled up the airline's contracted hotel reservation records.
But I was a controller, and my system access didn't include hotel bookings.
Still, I knew Franklin's work email password. He'd had me handle his expense reports back when we got married.
He never changed it.
Every time he stayed overnight in Korvburg, there was a hotel confirmation email in his inbox.
He ordered one standard room at the company rate of 150 dollars.
But his credit card bill showed 600 dollars charged to the hotel every single time.
That meat two rooms.
So who was staying in that extra room?
I took screenshots of each piece of data, one by one.
Then I saved them all in an encrypted folder.
The password was my controller ID.
While Franklin was off in Korvburg for those three days, I searched the house from top to bottom.
Not like some hysterical wife tearing the place apart, I did it like an air traffic controller running a route check: calm, systematic, and not missing a single spot.
In the study drawer, I found a watch I'd never seen before.
It was a Patek Philippe Nautilus, steel bracelet, blue-gray dial.
I pulled out my phone and looked up the price—80 thousand dollars.
Franklin's after-tax salary was 13 thousand dollars a month, and his year-end bonus was around 25 thousand dollars.
Our mortgage payment was 4,000 dollars a month, and the car loan was 1,500 dollars a month.
There was no record of him ever buying that watch on any of his statements.
On the back, there was a line of delicate cursive, so small it was almost impossible to make out.
I took a picture with my phone and zoomed in.
"To F.B., Always your co-pilot."
Those were Franklin's initials.
I stared at those words for a long time.
In aviation, the co-pilot was the person sitting beside the captain.
Whoever gave him the watch picked that word on purpose.
She was making herself out to be the one right by his side.