Chapter 4

During the two weeks Greta was recovering, the air at home was so tense that it felt like we were tiptoeing across thin ice. One wrong move and it would crack.

I went to work, made meals, changed Greta's bandages, just going through the motions, day after day.

Everything was routine, nothing out of place.

But not a single extra word was spoken.

Greta pouted, "Can you get home early today?"

I said, "Depends."

She tried to play the victim. "It's scary being here alone with all those aftershocks"

I answered, "The windows are solid."

She even tried to apologize, "About what happened on the cruise, that was my fault. I'm sorry."

I replied, "Yeah, I heard you."

And then I went right back to whatever I was doing.

One night, Greta finally lost it. She grabbed my sleeve and demanded, "What do you want from me?"

I said, looking down at her hand, "Nothing. Let go. I've got a meeting tomorrow. Don't mess up my shirt."

She released me, but her fingers left wrinkles in the fabric.

I knew she couldn't stand this kind of cold indifference.

Greta grew up getting everything she wanted. Her world was black and white. Either people adored her, or their ignored her.

Whenever she felt ignored, she'd go find someone who'd actually pay attention to her.

So, on the thirteenth day, when her phone lit up and I "accidentally" caught a glimpse of the message, I wasn't surprised.

Louie: [Miss you. Haven't heard from you in two weeks. Is he the reason you're not texting me back?]

I was bringing soup out of the kitchen when I saw it.

I set the bowl in front of her, placed the spoon beside it.

"Your phone's ringing," I said.

She quickly flipped her phone over and slid it under the cushion, her face freezing for a split second.

"Just a telemarketer," she said.

"Oh," I replied.

I sat down and started drinking my soup.

That night, after she fell asleep, I went to my study and opened my laptop.

I added a new entry to my notes.

[Day 13: Louie Carr reached out. She kept it from me. Time to move to Phase Two.]

The next day at work, I texted Greta around noon: [Got called out for a last-minute business trip. Might be gone three days. There's food in the fridge. Just microwave it.]

But I wasn't actually going anywhere.

I booked a room at the hotel next to my office. At 7 PM sharp, I left and drove to our apartment complex.

At 8:12 PM, a silver Audi pulled into the complex.

Three minutes later, Louie stepped out, carrying a paper bag with the logo of the city's priciest dessert shop.

At 8:17 PM, the building entrance opened.

I snapped three photos from my car, each timestamped.

I pulled away and slowly headed back to the hotel, taking my sweet time.

The next day, same routine. This time, he showed up at 8:03 PM.

On the third day, when I "returned" from my trip, I noticed a new pair of slippers by the door.

Men's, gray, size 10.

That was Louie's size.

I slipped them back into the shoe cabinet, pretending I hadn't seen a thing.

Greta looked up from the couch. "You're back? Was the trip exhausting?"

"Not really," I said.

"Want me to heat up some food for you?" she asked.

"Already ate," I replied.

I went into my study and locked the door.

I had six photos saved. Plus the call logs, the cruise ship surveillance footage, and Louie's Instagram post.

That was enough.

But it wasn't time yet.

I logged into Greta's social media account. She'd never changed her password. She told me it was her birthday plus her initials back when we were dating.

I pulled up the chat history from the past week.

Louie: [He's not home? I'll come over.]

Greta: [Okay.]

Louie: [How long's he gone for?]

Greta: [Three days.]

Louie: [I'll come by tomorrow again.]

Greta: [Okay, but don't come too early. The neighbors might see.]

I saved each screenshot, tagged them, and archived them.

Then I shut down my laptop, took a shower, and went to bed.

Greta rolled over next to me, half-asleep, mumbling, "You're cold..."

"Yeah," I said.

"Come here, let me warm you up, " she said.

I scooted over a bit.

"Go to sleep," I said.

In the dark, her hand draped over my arm, her fingertips were a little cold.

I didn't push her away, but I didn't take her hand either.

There was a crack in the ceiling from the earthquake. The building management kept saying they'd fix it next week, but they never actually came.

I just lay there, staring at that crack for what felt like forever.

It was like a hairline fracture, running from the corner all the way to the center of the ceiling.

It crept along, slow and silent, growing a little longer every day.