Chapter 3

That night he'd told me, "A friend had too much to drink, I'm going to book them a couple of rooms."

I waited until three in the morning before he came home.

I stood under the streetlamp and didn't move.

Lyndis's ex-husband was still shouting, spit flying as he pointed first at her, then at Alan.

"You two have been at this for a while now, haven't you, and you're still playing the victims? I'm only filing for divorce because I found out you were cheating on me!"

He turned to face me, a grin spreading across his mouth.

The stench of alcohol reached me even from several steps away.

"Your wife's an idiot too, isn't she, helping deliver your mistress right to your door. Wanting both of them and getting away with it. Must feel pretty good."

Lyndis was crying, her hand still clutching Alan's sleeve, tears streaming down her face.

"Shut your damn mouth!"

Alan swung a punch. The ex-husband threw an arm up to block it, and the two of them grappled, tangled together.

I don't know who called the police, but the patrol car got there fast, its lights flashing as it pulled up outside the complex gate. Several windows lit up along the building, curtains pulled aside for a better look.

Both men were loaded into the squad car. Alan looked back at me as they pushed him in, straining against the grip on his arm.

"Becky, wait for me. I'll explain everything."

I didn't say anything.

The car door shut. The lights spun twice, red and blue, and then it pulled away.

Lyndis stood rooted where she was, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She looked over at me once, her lips moving, but no sound came out.

I turned and headed upstairs.

Inside the elevator, the numbers ticked up one by one. When I reached our floor, the hallway lights were on, and I walked over to the door across from ours.

I dug the spare key out of my bag, slid it into the lock, and turned it twice. It was the first time I'd ever used that key.

I pushed the door open. The living room lights were off, so I flicked them on and stepped inside.

A pair of dark gray slippers sat on the floor, far newer than the pair we had at home.

I walked further in. A matching storage rack stood by the entertainment console, the same brand as ours. A pair of matching mugs sat on the dining table. Matching seasoning jars lined the kitchen counter, labels still on, never peeled off.

I recognized every one of them. They were all things I'd picked out myself when we furnished our new place.

That pair of mugs hadn't started out matching, either. Alan had thought one was enough, and I'd only grabbed a single mug. He'd picked up a second one in a different color at checkout, muttering that we might as well have a backup in case one broke, and after that he'd just started using it like it was his.

I'd picked out the seasoning jars too. I remembered standing in front of the shelf, picking up every color to look it over, while he leaned against the shopping cart and said it wouldn't affect my cooking anyway, that everything I made tasted good no matter what color the jar was.

I closed my eyes for a moment and kept walking.

The drawer under the coffee table hadn't been shut all the way, an envelope's edge poking out. I pulled it open. Inside was a bank card with a sticky note attached.

Written in black marker: Rent comes out of this.

It was Alan's handwriting. The card was his too. The adhesive on the note had already dried stiff, the corners yellowed.

I stared at those words for a while, then pushed the drawer shut.

The bedroom door was left ajar. I walked in.

There was no giant wedding portrait like the one we had at home, but a frame stood on the nightstand, and beside it, a clear glass vase held a bundle of dried roses, a champagne-colored ribbon wound around the stems.

I recognized that ribbon.

I picked up the frame. Light brown wood, the frame worn smooth at the edges.

There were only two people in the photo.

She stood right beside Alan, pressed close, smiling wide. In her hands, she held the bouquet I'd given her.

I remembered exactly what the original photo looked like. On my wedding day, the three of us had stood in front of the flower wall, Lyndis in her bridesmaid dress between me and Alan, one arm looped through mine, the other brushing his. All three of us had been smiling.

I hadn't thought anything of it at the time. A bridesmaid taking a photo with the couple was nothing out of the ordinary.

Looking at it now.

She was in her gown, he was in his suit, arranged exactly like our wedding portrait.

Except my half had been cut away, the edge still rough where the scissors had gone through.

A strip of frosted tape was stuck to the back of the wooden frame, a line written across it in ballpoint pen, a little sloppy, the same handwriting as the note on the bank card.

[Our first day together.]

I hadn't noticed Lyndis standing in the bedroom doorway. Her tear tracks had dried, but her lips were still trembling. "Becky, I never meant to keep this from you," she started.

I set the frame back down before she could finish. The wooden base knocked against the nightstand with a dull thud.

I turned to face her.

"You don't need to pay rent anymore. I'm selling the place. You have two days to move out."

She opened her mouth. I walked right past her.

Back in my own apartment, I stepped inside and locked the door behind me.

My phone screen was lit up with more than a dozen messages, all from Alan. I didn't open any of them.

I opened my contacts, found the entry saved as "Husband," tapped edit, and typed in "Alan Gordon" instead. Saved.

I dug through my photo album until I found the picture from my wedding day, the three of us together, the version from before I'd been cut out, and sent it to him.

[This won't get in the way of you helping her with the case. Let's file for divorce. We'll get it done before your anniversary with her, so you'll still have time for a proper wedding.]

[You can sleep across the hall tonight. That's your home too, isn't it?]

I sent it and turned my phone off.

Outside, the light was still on across the hall.

I drew my own curtains shut, both layers closing tight, blocking out every trace of light.

For the first time, I was grateful for how soundproof this apartment was.

I couldn't hear a thing.