Chapter 1

The day I came back to my own place, the housekeeper, Mary, asked through the door, "Who are you here for?"

I stood outside, holding my laptop bag and a bag of bread I hadn't even had time to eat. I froze for a couple of seconds, just to make sure I hadn't gone to the wrong floor.

The apartment number was 1602.

I'd bought this place outright before I got married. But the lock had been changed.

I tried my fingerprint three times, and every time, the mechanical voice repeated, "Unauthorized user. Please leave."

Before I could say anything, a woman's voice came from inside, sounding a bit wary but also a little self-righteous. "Who are you here for?"

I let out a laugh out of anger. "This is my place. Who do you think I'm here for?"

The door cracked open a bit.

Mary was wearing my apron, my new slippers from last month, and holding the keycard I always kept by the door.

She looked me up and down like I was some stranger here to stir up trouble. "Mr. Bennett isn't home. Outsiders aren't allowed in."

I stared her down. "I'm Wanda Lane. My name's on the deed."

Her eyes flickered, but she got even more defensive. "Mr. Bennett said things aren't safe recently. Doesn't matter who shows up, nobody gets in unless he says so."

Just then, the elevator dinged.

My husband, Charles Bennett, stepped out, holding a bag of fresh cherries. He paused when he saw me at the door, like he never thought I'd show up ahead of time.

"Wanda, why are you back? Didn't you say you'd be back tomorrow night?" he said.

I looked at him, not even trying to smile. "Do I need to get your approval to come home?"

He walked over and tried to take my bag, but I didn't hand it over.

"Stop it," he said quietly. "Mom's been home alone and keeps saying she's scared. Plus, there was a package stolen downstairs recently, so I had Mary change the locks."

"Change the locks?" I stared at the unfamiliar door. "You changed the locks on my home and didn't even bother to tell me?"

"I was busy and forgot," he said, unlocking the door with his fingerprint. "Come inside. I'll explain."

I didn't move. "Why was my fingerprint deleted?"

Charles paused for a second, his smile tight. "I haven't added it to the new system yet. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

I stared at him, saying nothing.

He was a master at this.

He was the one who did something wrong, but somehow, he always managed to make me look like I was overreacting, being dramatic, or stressed from work.

When I walked in, the first thing I saw was the pair of heels I always wear, shoved into the corner of the top shelf in the entryway shoe cabinet.

Front and center, there was a pair of boys' sneakers. Blue and white, size six.

I stopped in my tracks and asked, "When did we start having a kid in the house?"

Charles glanced over, totally unfazed. "Oh, that's Mary's nephew's. He stopped by once and left them here."

Mary chimed in right away, "You know how kids are—always leaving stuff behind. I'll take them away in a couple of days."

I put my laptop bag down and let it go for now. Still, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling creeping up inside me.

After all, I'd never once heard Mary mention having a nephew.

Charles had brought Mary over from his hometown two months ago, saying she was here to take care of his mom after she broke her leg.

At first, Mary was very polite and respectful. She called me "Mrs. Bennett", would check if I wanted anything spicy before she cooked, and always knocked before coming into the master bedroom.

But lately, in the past couple of weeks, she'd started acting more and more like she ran the place.

The imported coffee beans I kept in the kitchen? She claimed they were bad for my health and threw them out.

The hand cream I bought for myself? She said it smelled too strong and wasn't good for kids to breathe in, so she gave it to Charles's mom instead.

And the flowers I kept on the balcony. She said they attracted bugs and carried the whole pot away.

At first, I just thought she didn't know where to draw the line.

That night, I spotted a beige knit cardigan in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom, one that definitely didn't belong to me.

It was one size smaller than what I usually wear, and inside the collar, there was a tiny character stitched: "J".

As I walked out holding the cardigan, Charles was in the living room, peeling an apple.

He looked up, not missing a beat. "Mom brought home some clothes her friend's daughter left at the hospital. She said she'd wash them and give them back. Maybe Mary put them in the wrong closet."

"Oh, is that so?" I tossed the cardigan onto the coffee table. "So, literally anyone's stuff can show up in our master bedroom now?"

Charles frowned. "Wanda, are you exhausted lately or what? You're really making a scene over one piece of clothing?"

There it was again. He always said I was too tired, I was sensible, and I was overthinking it.

Back then, when I dragged myself home after working late, he'd leave the lights on for me and actually worry about the dark circles under my eyes. Now, he just chalked up everything I felt to me being emotional.