Chapter 1

At 1:17 a.m., my husband came home with a woman and a suitcase.

I was standing at the top of the stairs.

Before I could even ask who she was, she brushed past me and opened the linen closet at the end of the hall.

“Paul said clean towels are on the top shelf.” She turned and smiled at me. “Do you mind if I shower first?”

I didn’t snap.

I just stared at her hand on the cabinet door.

She hadn’t hesitated for a second—smoothly dodging the sticky drawer that always got stuck—and pulled out the white bath towel I usually set aside for guests.

Paul stood behind her, his jacket still damp, looking just the right amount of exhausted.

“Mara, can Eva stay here tonight?” he asked. “Something happened at her place. I couldn't just leave her out there.”

Eva looked down, tucking her hair behind her ear, her voice soft as if trying to save him the trouble. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to intrude.”

She said she was sorry, but her suitcase was already sunk into our carpet.

The muddy wheels left two dark, curved tracks all the way to the guest room door.

I’ve been married to Paul for twelve years, and I’ve cleaned up far too many of his "emergencies."

Emergency overtime, emergency work dinners, emergency forgotten anniversaries, emergencies that required me to visit his mother alone.

Every single time, he had a reasonable explanation—one that made me feel like asking any further questions would make me unreasonable.

But a coworker with nowhere to go wouldn't know which shelf the towels were on.

And she certainly wouldn't slip into this house so naturally within her very first minute of meeting his wife.

“Of course,” I said, stepping aside. “The guest room is on the left.”

Paul visibly relaxed. He’d clearly been bracing for a fight, ready to accuse me of being paranoid, ready to paint me as the heartless wife.

I didn’t give him the chance.

Once Eva went into the bathroom, Paul stepped closer and lowered his voice. “She’s been under a lot of stress lately. Don’t make her feel uncomfortable.”

I looked up at him. “I let her stay.”

“I know.” He brushed my arm, the gesture so practiced it felt almost dismissive. “You’re always so sensible.”

That used to bring me comfort.

Tonight, it felt like a sentence already passed.

When Paul went into the master bedroom to grab a change of clothes, he left his phone on the dining table.

The screen lit up.

Not a call, not a work message.

It was a text from Eva, sent just moments ago.

She was calmer than you said.

A second later, Paul’s automatic reply popped up.

I told you. She never makes a scene. Tomorrow we can bring the rest of your things over.

I didn’t touch the phone.

The shower was still running in the bathroom. Paul was rummaging through clothes in our bedroom, and Eva’s suitcase sat by the guest room door.

And I finally realized that tonight, this woman hadn’t just brought a suitcase.