Chapter 2

Emerson replied in no time. His answer was one word: [Sure.]

I stared at that single word, feeling a bit more at ease. I didn't know why I'd added that last question about whether they were moving anything out.

Maybe it was a woman's intuition. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was about more than an affair.

Harry was the most cautious person I knew. He never left a single loose end. In the three years we'd been married, he'd never given me any reason to doubt him.

Would someone that careful really make such a careless mistake as leaving his mistress's nightgown out to dry on the balcony? Unless he didn't care anymore. Unless he didn't care if I found out. Or maybe he had something else up his sleeve.

I was afraid to think too deeply. Every possibility cut into me. I collapsed onto the hotel carpet, my mind a tangled mess.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Harry. [Honey, are you home yet? Why didn't you let me know?] He added a smiley face.

Staring at that smiley, all I felt was disgust. It was so fake, so nauseating. I forced myself to swallow my anger and replied, [Something came up at work. I won't be home tonight. Rest well.]

He replied almost instantly, "Okay, take a rest. You've had a tough day, honey." And he threw in a hug emoji.

I tossed my phone aside, not wanting to look at it anymore. I was scared I'd blow up on him, screaming for answers over the phone.

But not yet, I didn't have evidence, only some random nightgown and a homeless person's story. If I went after him now, he'd talk his way out of it.

Said it blew down from upstairs, or a friend's. He'd come up with something. And I'd be the one looking crazy while he stayed cool as a cucumber.

I couldn't let that happen. I needed proof that he couldn't deny. I needed to know who that woman was and what was really going on between them.

For the next two days, I didn't go home. I stayed at the hotel. I told Harry I'd been pulled into a closed-door project at work. He didn't suspect a thing.

Every day, he still sent me his usual caring messages. But each one only deepened the wounds he'd already left on me.

And the eyes downstairs became my only hope. Every day, Emerson would send me updates via text about what was happening in 1802.

He texted: [6:15 AM, the woman drove off in a white BMW.

[8:05 PM, the woman showed up with a cake.

[They stayed in all night.

[The red nightgown on the balcony got brought inside.]

I jotted down every update in my notes. I looked up the license plate. The owner was Monica Fields, who ran a small company. In her photo, she had long, curly hair and flawless makeup. She was prettier than me, and younger too.

Staring at her picture, my heart felt like it was being torn apart. So this was the type Harry really liked. But when he was chasing me, he swore he loved my simple, understated style. Not a single word out of men's mouths was true.

On the third night, I was in my hotel room, checking the latest message from Emerson. [9 PM, Harry and the woman went downstairs together. They drove off.]

My heart leapt into my throat. [Where did they go?] I texted back immediately.

Emerson: [No idea. I couldn't keep up.]

I gripped my phone, pacing anxiously around the room. What were they doing out so late? A date? Dinner? Or something else?

An hour later, another text from Emerson came through. The message made my blood run cold. [They're back. They brought two men with them. All four of them carried a huge wooden box upstairs.]

A wooden box? My heart dropped. What kind of wooden box needs four people to lift it? What could they possibly be hiding inside?

I fired off a message right away. [What kind of box?]

Emerson replied almost instantly, like he was watching everything from downstairs. [It's rectangular, really heavy. Looks like a freezer. Brown, with what looked like carved patterns on the surface.]

My hands started trembling. That description hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was like the one Harry kept in the darkest corner of his study, the spot he never let any light touch.

He always claimed it was some old family heirloom, stuffed with worthless books, locked tight, and the key had supposedly vanished years ago. I'd never thought twice about it, until now.

But now, they'd hauled up another box, identical in every way. Why? Who on earth needed two of those creepy boxes in the same house?

Suddenly, a horrifying idea forced its way into my mind, and I couldn't shake it. The thought alone sent a chill down my spine, leaving me drenched in cold sweat.

I sent Emerson one last message. [Do me a favor. Try to get hold of the trash from 1802, especially anything from the kitchen.]

Emerson didn't ask why. He replied with one word: [Wait.]

That single word felt like an anchor, giving me something to cling to in this hellish torment. I had no clue how he'd manage it.

I didn't dare imagine the risks of a homeless person with limited mobility, trying to dig through the garbage of someone living on the eighteenth floor.

But I had no other choice. I could only trust him. Trust this stranger I'd met once, the one I'd handed 200 dollars to.

That night, I didn't sleep a wink. Outside the hotel window, the city blazed with lights, but my world was swallowed by darkness.

I kept replaying the three years I'd spent with Harry. He was gentle, thoughtful, and successful. He remembered every anniversary. When I was on my period, he'd make me hot chocolate.

Whenever work knocked me down, he'd hold me and whisper, "It's okay. You've got me." In all our friends' eyes, he was the perfect husband. Honestly, I believed it too, until now.

But now, the man I once thought was perfect was in our home with another woman, dragging a coffin-sized box into our apartment. It felt like some invisible hand was squeezing my heart so tight. I could barely breathe.

The next day, I still didn't go home. Harry texted me like clockwork: [Honey, how are you feeling today? Hope your project's going smoothly. Make sure you eat something.]

Reading those words made my stomach churn. I didn't reply. If I opened my mouth, all that anger would come pouring out.

Time dragged on, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, at three in the afternoon, when the sun was blazing, my phone rang. It was Emerson.

"Come down." It was still two short words, as usual.

I grabbed my coat and practically bolted out of the hotel room. I ran across the street from the apartment building. Emerson was crouched by a trash can, a black plastic bag in front of him, the bag was tied shut.

His face was pale, his forehead slick with sweat. On the back of his hand was a long, fresh scratch, like something sharp had sliced him.

My heart gave a jolt. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, didn't say a word, pushed the black plastic bag toward me. I knew what he meant.

I pulled him over to a secluded spot. Slipping on the gloves I'd brought, I took a deep breath and untied the knot on the bag. The stench of rotting food mixed with the sharp tang of disinfectant hit me full force.

I forced myself not to gag as I started emptying the contents one by one onto the ground. Most of it was kitchen waste, scraps, fruit rinds, and takeout containers.

One of the containers had the logo of that upscale sushi place I loved. Harry knew how much I loved that place. Now he was sharing my favorite meal with another woman. That realization stabbed at my heart all over again.

I kept digging through the trash. Besides the food, there were a bunch of used tissues, some with lipstick stains, not the kind I use.

Then I found a ripped-open package, addressed to Monica at our apartment, 1802. My hands were trembling.

She was sending her packages right to my home, as if she were the lady of the house. This wasn't some cheap affair anymore. She was taking over.

I pushed down the rage boiling inside me and kept searching. Finally, at the very bottom of the bag, I stumbled on a few things that sent a chill down my spine.

There was an empty pill bottle. The label was half torn off, but I could still make out a few characters, something ending in -zolam. I recognized it.

It was a powerful sedative, a controlled substance. One needed a prescription to get it. Harry didn't have insomnia. So whose was it?

Beside the empty bottle lay a crumpled receipt. I carefully smoothed it out. It was from a hardware store. The list made my blood run cold, ten bottles of industrial-strength acid, five pairs of heavy-duty rubber gloves, a hacksaw, and a bag of quicklime.

My mind went numb, like I'd been hit with a stun gun. These weren't things one'd ever find in a normal household. Seeing those words together sent chills down my spine. They pointed straight at a nightmare I couldn't bring myself to imagine.

I snapped my gaze up, staring at the apartment building across the street, at my place on the eighteenth floor. Was it still my home? Or had it already become a scene straight out of a horror movie, where bodies get chopped up?