Chapter 1

Every time my husband travels for work, the upstairs neighbors start leaking water. Three times now. Always late at night. And every time, the day after he returns, the leak stops.

I already had a suspicion, but I just couldn't bring myself to believe it.

This time, when the leak started, I kept quiet and just called a few friends to go upstairs.

The door swung open, and a woman with curly hair stood at the entrance. She stared at me for a couple of seconds, then tried to slam the door shut.

I was quicker. I blocked it with my foot and shoved it open.

Then I saw them behind her. A pair of men's sneakers by the shoe rack.

Those were the sneakers I got my husband for his birthday.

I just stood frozen in the doorway, then slowly sank to the floor, my mind a total blank.

*****

Every time my husband, Michael Evans, went on a business trip, the upstairs would start leaking.

It'd happened three times already.

Three times, no more, no less.

The first time, water dripped through the cracks in the ceiling and ruined the brand-new lamp I had just gotten.

I called Michael at three in the morning, and he sounded super annoyed. "Just call the property management! What's the point of telling me?"

The next day, he came back. And, as if by magic, the leak upstairs stopped.

The second time was two months later, when Michael went to a conference in a neighboring city.

Again, it was late at night.

This time, it was even worse. The water was pouring down in a steady stream, and the entryway was flooded.

I texted him, but he didn't reply.

I tried calling, and his phone was off.

I spent the whole night alone, battling the mess, wringing out towels, and hauling buckets until the sun came up.

Michael finally dragged himself home around noon the next day, looking completely worn out, and claimed his phone had run out of battery.

And just like that, once he was home, the leak upstairs stopped.

It was like someone had twisted the faucet shut, and no more water dripped down.

This was the third time.

He'd flown out yesterday afternoon, saying he was heading down south to negotiate a big project and would be away for the whole week.

At eleven o'clock that night, the familiar drip-drip started up right on schedule.

Each drip echoed in my chest, striking right at my heart.

I sat on the couch, unmoving. Unlike the first two times, I didn't scramble around in a panic. I just listened quietly.

A suspicion crept through me like poisonous vines, twisting tighter and tighter until I could barely breathe.

I just didn't want to believe it.

Michael and I were college sweethearts. We'd been together for eight years, married for five. We had a sweet little girl, Lily.

To everyone else, we were the perfect couple.

He had a thriving career, while I kept our household running smoothly.

He always remembered my birthday and would get me the latest designer bags.

He'd always say, "Babe, you work so hard. Thank you."

I just refused to believe it.

I grabbed my phone, but I didn't call Michael or the property management.

Instead, I called my best friend, Jessica Moore.

"Bring two friends over, the tough kind."

My voice was calm, almost cold.

Jessica paused for a second, then said, "Got it. Send me your address. I'll be there in a flash."

Half an hour later, Jessica showed up with two musclebound trainers from her gym.

I pointed at the ceiling. "Upstairs is leaking. Help me check it out."

Jessica glanced at my pale face, didn't ask anything, and just said, "Let's go."

We headed upstairs.

Standing outside apartment 602, I could hear a woman's laughter faintly coming from inside.

I rang the doorbell.

The laughter cut off instantly.

After what felt like forever, the door finally opened just a sliver. A face with heavy makeup appeared behind it. It was a woman with voluminous, wavy hair, draped in a silk robe.

She stared at me for a couple of seconds, frozen.

Panic flickered in her eyes.

She tried to shut the door immediately, but I was quicker. I wedged my foot and pushed hard.

The door swung open.

A strange mix of perfume and body wash hit my face, sharp and nauseating.

My gaze locked onto the entryway behind her.

There was a pair of gray men's sneakers with neon green laces.

I recognized those shoes.

Last month, I went to three stores to find that limited‑edition pair. A birthday gift for Michael.

He said he loved them, that it was the best gift he'd ever received.

He said he was going on a business trip to the south. The journey was long, and he couldn't bear to wear it out.

But now, those shoes he "couldn't bear to wear out" were parked right at the entrance of another woman's apartment.

With fresh dirt on the toes.

I just stood frozen in the doorway.

The world around me went quiet.

Jessica's shouts, the trainers' murmurs, the woman's frantic panic. All of them faded into nothing.

I slowly, slowly sank to the floor.

My mind went completely blank like a burnt‑out machine. My whole system just crashed.

The cold water dripping from the ceiling, and the home this man built out of nothing but lies. Turned out, everything was leaking: my ceiling, my marriage, my whole life.

My whole world just shattered.

Maybe it was bound to break anyway.