Chapter 1

The GPS voice cut through the dark, crisp and mechanical. "Turn right at the next intersection onto Raven Street. Five kilometers to your destination."

Zeke Bolton kept one hand on the wheel and rubbed his aching eyes with the other.

The dashboard clock read 8:23 p.m. He'd wrapped up the out-of-town inspection job three full days early. A solid week of nonstop work had left a dull ache behind his temples, but the thought of the person waiting at home softened the exhaustion into tender anticipation.

On the passenger seat, a pink box sat cinched in place by the seatbelt. Inside was a strawberry cake from Sweet Nothings, the bakery he'd driven more than thirty kilometers out of his way for and waited almost forty minutes in line to buy.

Nikki Spears had brought it up three times over the last two weeks, saying everyone at her office kept posting pictures of the place online—pink cream piled high with fat strawberries, gorgeous in photos.

He pictured her face when she saw it: the surprised "oh," and then she'd throw herself at him, arms around his neck, nuzzling his cheek like a cat begging for attention, before finally scooping up a huge spoonful of cream and insisting on feeding him first. The thought pulled the corner of his mouth up without him noticing, and his foot eased down a little harder on the gas.

At 9:07, the car rolled into the neighborhood. The streetlights in the old complex were dim. He parked and climbed the stairs with the cake box in hand. Motion-sensor lights clicked on with each footstep and faded again behind him.

He slid the key into the lock, turned it, and the door opened.

The living room lights were off. Only the faint glow of the city seeping in past the balcony traced the vague shapes of the furniture. Zeke blinked, then flipped on the entryway light.

"Nikki?" he called out.

No answer. The apartment was empty, quiet enough that he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking on.

He changed out of his shoes and set the cake box gently on the dining table. On the coffee table, a yellow sticky note sat pinned under a glass, catching the light. He walked over and picked it up. It was Nikki's handwriting, written in a hurry.

"Zeke, the new intern Tyler has moved into the studio in that old tenement district. Go take a look if you have time. The key's on the shoe cabinet. I might be back late tonight, don't wait up."

She'd signed off with a hastily drawn smiley face.

Zeke held the note, his brow furrowing bit by bit.

Tyler Byron. That name had been coming out of Nikki's mouth with unsettling frequency over the past month.

At first, it had just been "the new intern's a hard worker." Then it became "that kid's really got it rough." Lately it had turned into "Tyler bailed me out of another mess today."

He remembered last Friday night. Nikki had been scrolling her phone with a face mask on when she suddenly sighed.

"Tyler's lease is up and the landlord's raising the rent. He just started his internship; where's he supposed to get that kind of money? Is the studio where your friend once lived still empty?"

Zeke had been reading an inspection report at the time and answered without much thought. "I think so. He only moved out a few days ago."

"Then let me ask him!" Nikki's eyes had lit up, the mask nearly sliding off her face. "Just helping out. That kid's really got drive."

Zeke hadn't thought much of it at the time. Nikki was outgoing and warmhearted, and being kind to coworkers was nothing new for her. But looking at the note now, and remembering how naturally, how familiarly she'd said "Tyler" this past month, something in him gave an uneasy little twinge.

He turned toward the shoe cabinet. Sure enough, an unfamiliar silver key sat on the top shelf, a little blue teddy bear charm dangling from it. Beside it was Nikki's usual key ring, missing one key.

The digital clock on the fridge ticked over to 9:21.

Zeke stared at the key for a few seconds, then glanced back at the pink box on the table. Strawberry cream cake didn't keep well, especially in this weather. He pulled out his phone and texted Nikki: [Still busy? What time will you be back?]

The message dropped into silence. Ten minutes passed. No reply.

He walked to the window and looked out. A few late arrivals passed under the streetlights, but not the electric scooter he knew so well.

Maybe she was on her way home, and her phone had died. Or maybe she was still helping the intern get settled. Places in the old tenement district were rarely in good shape, and a guy fresh out of school might genuinely need a hand.

Zeke told himself that, and the small, nagging discomfort in his chest eased back down. He looked at the cake and decided to head over to the studio, both to check on things and to bring Nikki home.

He could bring the cake along. If the intern happened to be there too, it could double as a welcome gesture. Nikki always said he was too cold to people; this time, he'd make the effort.

He put his shoes back on, picked up the cake box, and grabbed the key from the cabinet. Before leaving, he switched the living room lights to the warm night-light setting, so the apartment wouldn't be too dark when Nikki got home.

The navigation was set for the studio in the old tenement district. Zeke had gone there once before, helping a friend, and remembered roughly where it was.

The car pulled out of the complex and merged into the night traffic, still busy even at this hour. The closer he got to the old tenement district, the narrower the roads became and the dimmer the lights, the storefronts shifting from bright convenience stores to small salons glowing with suggestive neon and food carts wreathed in smoke.

At 9:50, he parked at the mouth of an alley just wide enough to squeeze the car into.

Zeke got out with the cake box and searched for the address he remembered. The buildings here crowded close together, the air thick with the smell of cooking oil, garbage, and damp mildew.

He found the six-story walk-up. The stairwell had no lights, so he cut through the dark with his phone's flashlight, the beam catching mottled ads and graffiti on the walls. When he slid the key into the lock on the third floor, he paused.

He could hear the faint whir of a hair dryer inside, and voices, too muffled to make out.

Nikki must still be helping him settle in. He turned the key and pushed the door open.

A wave of warm air, sweet with the scent of shower gel, hit him, a sharp contrast to the stale air in the stairwell. The light inside was bright, and Zeke blinked instinctively.

Then he saw it.

Time seemed to stop.

The studio, barely twenty square meters, held simple but tidy furniture.

Tyler stood with his back to the door, wearing nothing but a black bathrobe loosely tied at the waist. He stood barefoot on the small rug by the bed, his hair still dripping, water beading down the strands and darkening a patch on the robe's shoulder.

And Nikki, his wife, stood right behind Tyler.

Her left hand rested with easy familiarity on Tyler's bare shoulder, fingers curled slightly, pressing into the soft fabric of the robe. Her right hand held up a white hair dryer, and she was bent forward, focused, drying his hair. The warm air hummed and stirred his half-dry hair, along with the loose strands at Nikki's forehead.

The two of them stood close. Tyler had tipped his head forward to make it easier for her, exposing the curve of his neck fully to her view.

From Zeke's angle, he could see Tyler's profile, close enough that his lips nearly grazed the inside of Nikki's right wrist, the softest, most vulnerable stretch of skin.

Nikki seemed to say something, then laughed and patted Tyler's back with her left hand, the motion so natural it looked practiced. "Hold still, I want to finish before I head back."

Her voice carried a familiar, teasing warmth, the kind Zeke recognized as reserved for people she was close to.

His gaze moved mechanically.

On the nightstand sat an open jar of face cream, the same brand Nikki always used, the one he'd had a friend bring back from abroad as a birthday gift last year. Beside it, two identical white mugs sat side by side, steam still curling faintly from their rims. On the table, a half-eaten takeout container, two forks.

Every detail felt like a cold needle, driving into his heart, one after another.

There was a soft thud.

The cake box in his hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. The string slipped from his stiff fingers, and the pink box dropped straight down, hitting the concrete floor. The side of the box split open, the carefully piped cream buckled and crushed, and bright red strawberries rolled out, their juice splattering like blood across the white canvas of his sneakers.

The sound wasn't loud, but in the sudden hush of the room, it was unmistakable.

The hair dryer went quiet.

Nikki looked up toward the sound, toward the doorway. When she saw Zeke standing there, the relaxed, smiling look on her face froze instantly. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted, and the hand resting on Tyler's shoulder snapped back as if burned.

"Honey..." Her voice was pure shock.

Tyler turned too. The moment he saw Zeke, a flicker of panic crossed the young man's face, quickly smoothed over by forced composure. He reached up without thinking to straighten the collar of his robe, a gesture that, in that moment, only made things look worse.

Zeke stood frozen in place.

He watched Nikki's two quick steps backward, watched Tyler's awkward expression, watched the ruined strawberry cream spreading across the floor. The warm air in the room suddenly felt suffocating, and a chill was climbing up his spine, spreading fast through every limb.

Blood pounded in his ears, and at the same time seemed to freeze solid.

He wanted to say something, but his throat had locked shut, and no sound would come. He wanted to ask what they were doing. Why she was here drying another man's hair. What any of this was supposed to mean.

But every question jammed in his chest, fused into one burning, suffocating knot.

He looked at Nikki one last time. She was biting her lip, her eyes full of panic and confusion, but not one trace of the guilt or the urgent need to explain herself that he'd braced for.

Zeke turned and walked out.

"Zeke!" Nikki's voice chased after him, along with the quick patter of footsteps.

He didn't look back. He was nearly running down the stairs, stumbling in the dark, one hand braced against the cold, damp wall, nearly missing a step more than once.

Not until he burst out of the building and the cold night air filled his lungs did he finally gasp for breath, like a drowning man breaking the surface.

Under the dim yellow streetlight at the mouth of the alley, his shadow stretched long and warped.

Zeke leaned against the car door and looked down at the garish red strawberry stain on his shoe. The cream had already soaked into the canvas weave, sticky and cold. He crouched slowly and tried to wipe it off with trembling fingers, only making it worse.

In the car, the passenger seat still sat buckled in, as if the cake were still there.

He held the crouch, and in the dark where no one could see, his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and landed on the back of his hand, quickly cooled by the night air.

Some time passed before he stood, opened the door, and climbed in. The engine turning over sounded jarringly loud in the quiet alley.

In the rearview mirror, a window in the walk-up was still lit.

Zeke didn't look up. He just gripped the wheel, pressed the gas, and pulled the car slowly out of the narrow alley, back into the endless flow of city lights.

The navigation screen was still frozen on the last page, the mechanical female voice asking, "Recalculate route?"

Zeke reached over and killed the screen.

The whole car sank into darkness, only the faint glow of the dashboard lighting his colorless face. He kept driving, aimless, weaving through the streets, until his phone buzzed.

The name "Nikki" flashed on the screen.

He stared at his wife's name for a long time, long enough that the call rang out on its own. Then the screen lit up again, this time with a text notification.

Nikki: [Zeke, you've got this all wrong. Tyler hurt his hand and couldn't manage; I was just helping him dry his hair. Are you home yet?]

An emoji followed, a small, sheepish one.

Zeke's finger hovered over the screen, the tip of it ice-cold. He read the message word by word, then read it again, before turning the screen off and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.

The car finally came to a stop below their building. He sat there, looking up at the warm yellow glow of the night-light spilling from their window, the one he'd left on especially for her before he'd gone out.

The light was still on. She still wasn't home.

Zeke slowly slumped forward over the wheel, forehead pressed against the cold leather, and closed his eyes.