Chapter 1

I, Violet Quinn, was away on a business trip for ten days, and every night, I video-called my husband, Harry.

He would always sit in the study, with the familiar bookshelf in the background.

Today, I returned home earlier than expected and ran into a homeless person at the entrance of my neighborhood.

I casually gave him 5 dollars and turned to leave.

Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and asked, "Miss, is your apartment number 1802?"

My heart skipped a beat. "How do you know that?" I asked.

He didn't speak but pointed upstairs.

Following his finger, I saw a bright red nightgown hanging on our balcony.

It wasn't something in my wardrobe.

The homeless person whispered, "She comes at eight every evening and leaves at six in the morning. She hasn't left yet today."

*****

When my plane touched down in Silverlake, the rain had stopped. The air was thick with the fresh scent of damp grass.

I grabbed my suitcase and hurried out of the airport, my heart practically bursting with excitement. I'd been away on a business trip to the neighboring city for ten whole days. Every night, I'd video-call Harry.

He was always in the study, with that wood bookshelf we'd picked out together in the background, packed full of his prized collection.

On the calls, he was gentle and caring, reminding me to eat on time and stay safe. He said he missed me being home alone. I missed him, too.

So as soon as the project wrapped up, I booked the earliest flight and came back a day early, wanting to surprise him.

The taxi pulled up at the entrance of my apartment complex. I paid the driver, grabbed my suitcase, and walked through the gate. A homeless person looked up at me. He was skinny, his hair a mess, but his eyes were bright.

I pulled out twenty bucks from my wallet, walked over, and gave it to him. "It's getting cold. Go buy yourself something warm to eat," I said. He didn't say thank you, but stared at me.

I smiled and turned to head upstairs. Suddenly, a dry, bony hand grabbed my wrist. The grip was surprisingly strong. I jumped, startled, and turned around. It was that homeless person, Emerson.

He shot up from the ground, grabbed me, his eyes burning with a kind of urgency I couldn't read. "Miss, is your room 1802?" His voice was rough, like it had been scraped by sandpaper.

My heart skipped a beat. It felt like my blood had turned to ice. "How do you know?" I asked.

He didn't answer, let go of my wrist, and pointed upstairs at our building. My heart was pounding like a drum. I followed his finger and looked up, my neck stiffening.

I looked up at the eighteenth floor. On the balcony, a red silk nightgown swayed gently in the evening breeze. The red was like a drop of blood, stabbing into my eyes.

My mind went blank. All my clothes were neutral colors, plain, understated. Nothing that flashy or revealing had ever hung in my closet, and never would. That nightgown wasn't mine. Whose was it?

Emerson leaned in, his voice low and deliberate, each word drilling into my ear. "She comes every night at eight, leaves at six in the morning. Today, she hasn't left yet."

*****

My world shattered in that moment. The suitcase slipped from my numb fingers and crashed onto the concrete with a loud bang, echoing the wreckage inside my battered heart.

"I stood there, staring at that red nightgown. It was like a flag, a victory flag planted by another woman right in my own home. The irony was almost funny.

I'd been gone only ten days. Every single night, I'd see him on the screen. And there he was, sitting behind the desk we'd chosen together, telling me goodnight before crawling into bed and pulling another woman into his arms.

He didn't bother to cover it up. Or maybe he was so sure I wouldn't come back early. That was the only reason he'd dare to hang another woman's lingerie out on the balcony I'd cared for with my own hands.

My stomach twisted violently. I felt sick, sick all the way down to my bones. Emerson was still watching me, his eyes filled with both sympathy and wariness.

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes tight. I couldn't cry. Not now. I bent down and grabbed my suitcase, my knuckles going white from how hard I was gripping the handle.

I couldn't bring myself to go home. Emerson said that the woman was still inside. If I barged in now, what would I see? I didn't dare imagine it. That kind of scene would scar me for life.

I forced myself to calm down. My mind was spinning. What should I do? I fished out my phone and unlocked it. The screen was still a photo of Harry and me at the beach, his arms around me, his smile bright and carefree.

Staring at that photo, it felt like it was burning a hole in my eyes. I deleted it and opened my contacts. I wasn't calling the police, or my parents, or any friends. I found the number and hit call.

"Hey, can you book me a room at the hotel right across from my apartment?" I said. My assistant picked up, sounding a bit surprised but not asking questions.

"Sure thing, Violet," my assistant replied.

After hanging up, I turned back to Emerson. I took out all the cash I had left, about 200 dollars, and pressed it into his hand. "Thank you," I said, and this time, I truly meant it.

If it weren't for him, I probably would've barged in all happy, only to walk right into the most humiliating nightmare of my life.

Emerson looked a little surprised, then accepted the money. "Miss, don't take it too hard," he said, which was rare for him.

I wanted to let it go, but how could I? Three years of marriage, and I gave everything I had. I thought we were each other's haven. Turned out, I was the only one playing my part.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the complex without looking back. I didn't dare glance at that red nightgown again. I was scared I'd lose control, storm upstairs, and stab those filthy cheaters.

My assistant texted me the room number right away. I checked in. My room's window looked directly out at our apartment building.

I stood by the window and grabbed the binoculars provided in the room. It was a luxury business hotel; everything was high-end. I raised the binoculars and found the balcony of 1802 right away. That red nightgown was still fluttering in the breeze.

I put down the binoculars and drew the curtains closed. Everything plunged into darkness. I stood there in the dark for a long time, until my limbs went numb.

Then I pulled out my phone and texted Emerson. I'd gotten his number. [I need your help. I'll pay you. Keep an eye on 1802 for me and track everything about that woman, her license plate, how she looks,] I texted.

I paused, fingers hovering over the screen, then typed the last line. [And let me know if they take anything out of the apartment.]