Chapter 3

How could I come up with such an insane, horrifying idea? Dismemberment, stuff like that, only happened in movies or on the news.

Harry, the guy who'd frown at the thought of killing a fish, could never do something like that. I must be going crazy, letting jealousy and anger mess with my head.

I kept telling myself to stay calm. Maybe all this stuff was for unclogging the drain. Yeah, that had to be it. But who used a hacksaw and quicklime to unclog a drain? My rational mind and my gut were at war inside my head.

In the end, fear took over. I stared at the trash on the floor and that shopping receipt. I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't keep hiding out in the hotel, relying on a homeless person to piece together these scattered clues for me.

I had to go home. I needed to find out for myself what went down in that house, and what secrets that extra box was hiding.

I stuffed everything back into the trash bag and tossed it in the bin. Then I handed Emerson the last 300 dollars I had.

"Thanks. This is the last time. From now on, stay out of this. Keep your distance from them. Stay as far away as you can," I said, my voice trembling.

If my suspicions were right, Harry was a total monster. I couldn't drag this innocent homeless person into it any longer.

He looked at me, his eyes full of complicated emotions. "Miss, you should call the cops," he said, his voice rough.

Call the cops? Of course, I wanted to. But what was I supposed to tell them? A pile of random trash? An empty pill bottle? A hardware store receipt? Would the police believe me?

They'd probably see me as some jealous wife, spinning wild theories because I couldn't prove my husband was cheating. If I stir things up, I might not see it coming when something happened to me.

"I don't have any proof," I said with a bitter smile. "I have to find it myself."

Emerson didn't try to talk me out of it anymore. He quietly took the money and retreated to his corner, sitting there motionless.

I turned around, grabbed my suitcase, and made my way, one step at a time, toward the house I once thought was my safe haven. Now, it felt more like a nest of vipers.

I stood at the door to 1802, fumbling with my key. My hands were shaking so badly that it took me several tries to get the key into the lock. The door finally swung open.

The room was dead quiet. The entryway floor was so clean it practically gleamed. A faint lemon scent lingered in the air, the same fragrance I always used.

Everything looked exactly as it had when I left, as if all those things, the red nightgown, Monica, and that heavy wooden box, had been a bad dream.

"Honey? You're back?" Harry's voice called out from the living room, a mix of surprise and barely concealed delight. He hurried over, took my suitcase, and wrapped me in a big hug.

His embrace was as warm as always, and he still had that familiar, faint tobacco scent I recognized instantly.

"Why are you back so suddenly? Did the project finish early?" he asked with a smile, his eyes full of affection.

"Yeah, it wrapped up ahead of schedule. I wanted to surprise you," I said, forcing a smile, my voice a bit dry. Leaning into his arms, I couldn't help but inhale deeply, searching for any unfamiliar scent.

The lemon scent was overpowering, but underneath it, I caught a faint, unmistakable smell, disinfectant. It was exactly the same as what I'd smelled in that trash bag.

My heart plummeted. There was no doubt now. He was definitely covering something up.

"You must be tired. Go freshen up. I cooked your favorite BBQ ribs," he said, letting go of me and giving my hair a playful tousle.

I nodded and obediently headed for the bathroom. The moment I stepped inside, my eyes widened in shock. In the corner sat a brand-new, unopened plunger.

The one we always used was red. I remembered it clearly. I'd used it last week to unclog the toilet. Why would he suddenly replace it with a new one for no reason?

A terrifying detail flashed through my mind. The hacksaw, the strong acid, the quicklime, all of it tied to a clogged drain. An entire, spine-chilling scene played out in my head.

They weren't fixing a clogged drain. They were dealing with whatever was blocking it. Something that had been chopped up with a hacksaw and sent down the pipes.

My stomach twisted and turned. I rushed to the toilet, dry heaving so hard I thought I might pass out. Nothing came up except a bit of sour stomach acid, and then the tears started pouring down, too.

Fear washed over me, cold and relentless, like I was drowning in the ocean. I stayed in the bathroom for ages, until there was nothing left in my stomach and I'd wiped away every last tear from my face.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, a woman with a ghostly pale face and terror in her eyes. I knew I couldn't let myself fall apart. I had to survive and had to get to the bottom of this.

I splashed some water on my face, pulled myself together, and walked out of the bathroom like nothing was wrong. Harry was waiting for me at the dining table.

The whole table was covered with my favorite dishes. As soon as he saw me, he stood up and pulled out a chair for me.

"Come on, try my cooking. See if I've lost my touch," he said with a smile, picking up a rib and placing it on my plate.

I watched his gentle face as he served me food with those practiced, caring hands. Which side of him was real?

Was he really the loving husband who took care of my every need, or was he the devil who could use a hacksaw and strong acid to dispose of a corpse?

I ate, barely tasting a thing. My mind was consumed by thoughts of that ornate brown wooden chest. I had to see it with my own eyes.

"Oh, by the way, I brought a gift for Mr. Ford from my business trip. Can you grab it for me?" I said, setting down my fork and trying to sound casual. "It's in that brown box in my study. I put it there earlier."

I stared into his eyes. Sure enough, when he heard the words brown box, a flicker of panic crossed his face, so quick, but I caught it.

"Oh, sure, I'll get it after dinner," he said, looking down and avoiding my gaze.

"I need it now. I have to give it to him first thing tomorrow."

"Why don't you get it yourself? You know I never mess with anything in your study," I said, standing up.

"Honey," he started, trying to stop me.

"What's wrong?" I turned back, looking at him calmly. "Is there a problem?"

He forced a stiff smile. "No, it's not a bad time. The study's kind of messy. You might have trouble finding it."

"No worries, I'll manage."

I didn't give him another chance to stop me. I turned and headed straight for the study. My heart was pounding like a drum. I knew I was getting closer to the truth. And I also knew there was no turning back from here.

I opened the door to the study. Everything looked as I'd left it. The rosewood bookshelf was still packed with books. My eyes went straight to that shadowy corner.

My breath caught in my throat. There, sitting quietly in the corner, were two identical wooden chests, brown, with intricate carvings. They looked exactly like the ones I remembered.

I hurried over and crouched down, checking out the extra chest. It was locked up tight with an old brass lock, the same kind as the one on my own chest.

I reached out and tried to lift it. It was so heavy it made my hands tremble. Even when I used all my strength, it barely moved. What on earth could be inside?

My eyes fell on a crack at the bottom of the chest. I saw a faint, dark red liquid oozing out from the gap. It had already dried, leaving a small, odd-shaped mark on the dark wooden floor.

I dabbed it with my finger and brought it to my nose. A faint, metallic scent, rust and blood, hit me right away.

It was blood, no doubt about it. Everything was in here. This chest held all the secrets.

I stood up and started tearing the study apart, desperate to find the key. Harry must've hidden it somewhere in here. I rifled through every drawer, every book, nothing. The key was nowhere to be found.

When I was about to give up, my gaze fell upon a small, dusty box perched atop the bookshelf. It had been sitting there for ages, gathering dust, and I'd never bothered with it.

I climbed onto a chair, took it down, and flipped it open.

There was no key inside, only a thick stack of photos. Every single photo featured the same woman, with long curly hair, flawless makeup, and a bright, dazzling smile. It was Monica.

The backgrounds were all painfully familiar, our living room, our bedroom, shots of me lying in bed. Someone had snapped pictures of me while I was dead asleep. And in the corner of every photo, I could see Harry's handwriting and the date.

My blood ran cold. He wasn't having an affair at all. He was studying me, the way a predator studies its prey.

I poured out all the photos. At the very bottom of the box, I found a small, folded slip of paper. I opened it. There was a single line written on it: [She's next.] The handwriting was clearly Harry's.

Before I could process the overwhelming fear, I heard a click, the study door locked from the outside.

I spun around. Harry's face appeared behind the tiny glass window in the door. The gentle smile was gone, replaced by a cold, deranged expression that made my skin crawl.

"Honey," he said, each word slow and deliberate through the door. "Did you see everything?"