Chapter 2: the weight of suspicion

Six month month ago 

I hadn't always been this woman the one who screamed at her husband, who shattered wine glasses on marble floors, who stood trembling in a red dress meant for romance

I year ago I still believed in us.

October

The dry cleaning ticket was paper-clipped to Marcus’s navy suit jacket the one he wore for important meetings, the one that made his shoulders look broader, more commanding. I had been sorting through his clothes for our weekly drop-off when something fluttered from the inner pocket.

A receipt.

I almost didn't look. Would have tossed it in the recycling without a second thought. But something made me pause and I smooth out the crumpled paper.

The Grandview Hotel

Room 412

October 14th

Total: $347.89

My stomach dropped.

October 14th. Last Tuesday.

I remembered that night perfectly because I'd made his favorite braised short ribs that took four hours. I'd texted him at six: Dinner at 7?

He'd replied at 8:47: Client dinner running late. Gonna crash at Brody's. Don't wait up. Love you.

I'd eaten alone, wrapped his plate went to bed at ten.

Now I held proof he'd been at a hotel.

Breathe, I told myself. There's an explanation.

Brody lived twenty minutes away in Sherman Oaks. Why would Marcus need a hotel room?

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, opened G****e Maps. The Grandview was downtown forty-five minutes from Brody's place, fifteen minutes from Marcus's office.

Maybe the client dinner was at the hotel restaurant, I reasoned. Maybe he was too tired to drive. Maybe he got the room to sleep off the drinks, be responsible.

That made sense.

That was probably it.

So why did my chest feel tight? Why did my throat burn?

I folded the receipt carefully, slipped it into my pocket, and finished sorting the dry cleaning with mechanical precision. When I was done, I stood in our walk-in closet organized by color, season, occasion and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

The universe had given me signs with Marcus. Good signs. 

This was probably nothing.

But my phone was already in my hand, pulling up our text thread from that night.

Me (6:47 PM): Dinner at 7? Made your favorite 

Marcus (8:47 PM): Client dinner running late. Gonna crash at Brody's. Don't wait up. Love you.

Me (8:49 PM): Be safe. Love you too. 

I stared at those messages until the words blurred.

Just ask him, a small voice whispered. When he gets home, just ask.

"Babe? You home?"

Marcus's voice from downstairs made me jump. The phone nearly slipped from my hand. I shoved it in my pocket, grabbed the dry cleaning bag, and forced my face into something normal.

"Up here!" My voice came out steady. Bright. "Just getting your suits ready!"

By the time I made it downstairs, he was in the kitchen, tie already loosened, jacket slung over a chair. He looked like he'd walked out of a cologne dark hair slightly mussed, strong jaw shadowed with five o'clock scruff, that easy confidence that had first attracted me at that rooftop fundraiser four years ago.

"Hey, gorgeous." He pulled me into a kiss that tasted like coffee and wintergreen mints. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, familiar and warm. "God, I missed you today."

The receipt burned in my pocket.

"Missed you too," I heard myself say. "How was work?"

"Brutal." He released me, moved to the fridge, grabbed a beer. "Jensen's on everyone's ass about quarterly projections. And the Harriman account is taking forever to close." He twisted off the cap, took a long drink. "Might have to travel next month. Chicago or Seattle, not sure yet."

"Oh." I moved to the stove on autopilot, pulling out ingredients for pasta. "That's a lot."

"Yeah, well." He leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone. Already distant. Already somewhere else. "Comes with the territory. Oh, and don't wait up tomorrow night. Got another client dinner."

The words came out before I could stop them "Marcus?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up from the screen.

"Were you... did you stay at The Grandview last week?"

The scrolling stopped. Just for a second so brief I almost missed it. His eyes flicked up, locked with mine and something passed across his face.

Surprise? Guilt?

Gone too quickly to tell.

"The Grandview?" He laughed, shook his head. "No, why?"

"I found a receipt. In your jacket. From last Tuesday."

"Oh, that." He set down his phone, waved a dismissive hand. "Brody booked a conference room there for the client pitch. Must've gotten charged to my corporate card by mistake. You know how accounting screws things up."

It sounded reasonable.

It sounded true.

"But it said Room 412. Not a conference room."

His jaw tightened, just slightly. "Eleanor, what is this? An interrogation?"

"No, I just"

"The hotel probably codes everything the same way. Conference rooms, ballrooms, whatever." He stepped closer, cupped my face with one hand. His touch was gentle, familiar. "Baby, what's wrong? Why are you stressed about a hotel receipt?"

Because it doesn't make sense, I wanted to say. Because you said you stayed at Brody's. Because the dates don't match. Because

"I'm not stressed," I said instead. "I was just confused."

"Hey." His thumb stroked my cheek, and I hated how my body still responded to that touch, still leaned into it like a flower seeking sun. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? If something's bothering you?"

Are you cheating on me?

The question died in my throat.

"I know," I whispered.

"Good." He kissed my forehead, lingering. "That's my girl. Now, you said something about pasta? I'm starving."