Chapter 4

The week after the birthday dinner, the apartment sank into an even deeper silence.

Zeke had muted Nikki's social media on his phone, but the traces of her life couldn't be blocked with a single tap.

Sunday morning, sunlight spilled through the living room windows, laying bright patches across the floor. Dust drifted through the beams like countless tiny, restless spirits.

He stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the home they'd lived in for almost two years now.

Several takeout containers were piled on the coffee table, a few days' worth of clothes lay tossed over the couch, and faint shoe-print dust dulled the floor. Everything about it felt neglected, worn down, unattended.

Maybe it was time for a real cleaning, Zeke thought. Better to do something than sit around doing nothing.

He got a broom, a mop, and a rag from the balcony, pulled on rubber gloves, and got to work. He started with the living room, sorting the takeout containers into bags, wiping down the coffee table three times over until the wood grain showed through clearly. He gathered the clothes off the couch and found one of Nikki's knit sweaters among them, a faint yellow stain still visible near the cream-colored cuff, a trace of mango cream.

He stared at the stain for a few seconds, then set the sweater aside and kept cleaning.

He knelt, scrubbed the floor, and worked over every tile with force. Water mixed with dust smeared into twisting patterns before a fresh swipe of the rag wiped it away.

Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and kept going.

The kitchen came next. The range hood filter had a thick buildup of grease, so he pulled it off to soak in dish soap. Some of the vegetables in the fridge had wilted, so he cleared those out and threw them away. Tucked in the back of the crisper drawer sat half a watermelon, wrapped in plastic, its edges already going soft and spoiled.

Nikki had bought that watermelon the week before, saying she wanted something cold. She'd cut most of it that day, and the two of them had split it. She'd said she'd finish the rest "tomorrow," but she'd clearly forgotten.

Tomorrow kept becoming tomorrow, until there was nothing left to do but throw it out.

Zeke bagged up the rotten watermelon, tied it shut, and set it by the door.

Last was the entryway, the spot that collected the most dust and was hardest to clean. A small bench sat beside the shoe cabinet. A few pairs of everyday shoes scattered carelessly on top. He took them all out, wiped each pair clean, and set them on the balcony to air out.

Then he opened the shoe cabinet.

There were four shelves. The top held Nikki's heels and boots, polished to a shine. The middle two held the casual shoes and sneakers they both wore often. The bottom shelf usually held shoeboxes they rarely touched, along with odds and ends.

Zeke crouched down to clear out the bottom shelf. He reached in, feeling around for a few shoeboxes, and pulled them out one by one. There was an old pair of sneakers from his college years, a pair of dress shoes Nikki had worn once and complained were uncomfortable, and a few shoe covers and spare insoles wedged into the corners.

Just as he thought he'd finished, his fingers brushed against another box, deep at the back of the cabinet.

The feel of it was different from an ordinary shoebox, thicker, more substantial. He gave it a firm tug and pulled it free.

It was a brand-new box, without a single crease, solid black, with a silver logo stamped in the center of the lid—an elegant, high-end design, the mark of a well-known international sportswear brand. A white label on the side listed a model number, a size, and a string of digits: 400.00 dollars.

Zeke stared at that price for a long time.

Then he opened the lid.

Inside sat a pair of basketball shoes, black and red, the upper made of some premium synthetic material that caught a subtle sheen even in the entryway's dim natural light. The laces were tied neatly, the tag still attached, the plastic fastener uncut. The tread on the sole was deep and crisp, without a hint of wear, brand new, as if it had just come off a store shelf.

They were limited-edition. Zeke had seen a pair like them once in a mall display case, and he'd even joked with Nikki about it at the time. "Shoes are so expensive these days."

Nikki had had her arm looped through his then, and she'd laughed. "Right? For that kind of money, you could buy a whole wardrobe instead."

And now, she'd gone and bought this exact pair. 400 dollars.

Zeke slowly straightened up, the box still in his hands. He glanced down at his own shoes, a pair of off-white canvas sneakers, the toes already going gray, the rubber tread on the right sole worn nearly smooth from years of use. He had to be careful walking in the rain, or he'd slip.

He'd bought these two years ago on sale at the mall, twenty-eight dollars, buy one get one free. The matching black pair had already worn out and been thrown away. Nikki had said back then, "These are actually pretty comfortable, and cheap too. Might as well buy a few pairs and rotate them."

He remembered, too, how at the end of last month, Nikki had sighed over her phone bill. "We're over budget again this month, I've got to pay off 450 dollars on the credit card. Let's cut back next month, okay?"

He'd told her, "Sure, I'll try not to spend much."

And then she'd gone and bought a four-hundred-dollar pair of basketball shoes.

Zeke set the box down on the bench by the shoe cabinet, took out his phone, and snapped a few photos of the box and the shoes inside, different angles, sharp enough to read every word on the label.

Once he'd finished, he closed the lid, put the box back exactly where it had been at the bottom of the cabinet, and put everything else back in its place.

When it was all done, he stood in the entryway looking at the closed cabinet door, and it suddenly struck him how absurd this whole cleaning spree had been. What was the point of scrubbing the surfaces spotless? The filth was always hidden in the corners you couldn't see, brand new, expensive, and blinding.

The afternoon crept by. Zeke sat in the study with a specialized textbook, but not a single line of it registered. Outside, the sun crawled slowly from east to west, shadows creeping across the desk.

He kept glancing at the time. Four o'clock. Five. Six.

Nikki got home at seven-twenty. Zeke was sitting on the living room couch when he heard the key turn, remote in hand, the TV playing some news program he wasn't actually watching.

"I'm home," Nikki called, her voice tired but still fairly light. She hung her bag on the entryway rack and bent down to change her shoes.

Zeke didn't answer.

Nikki slipped on her house slippers and walked in, then paused at the sight of the tidy living room. "You cleaned?"

"Yeah." Zeke pressed a button on the remote, and the TV went silent.

"Thank you." Nikki headed toward the kitchen. "What should we have for dinner? I'll cook."

"No need." Zeke stood, walked to the entryway, opened the shoe cabinet, bent down, and pulled the black box out from the bottom shelf.

He carried it back to the living room, set it on the coffee table, and pushed it toward Nikki.

"Who's this for?" he asked, his voice calm, calmer than even he'd expected.

Nikki was at the fridge getting something out. She turned at his voice.

The moment she saw the box, her expression froze. It was a mix of surprise, panic, and the particular awkwardness of being caught with a secret exposed, all of it lasting less than two seconds, but clear enough to read.

She set down the yogurt in her hand and walked over, her fingers twisting together without her seeming to notice.

"This... where did you find this?"

"While I was doing a deep clean. It was in the cabinet." Zeke looked at her. "So who's it for?"

Nikki bit her lower lip, a habit she always fell into when nervous. Then she took a deep breath, and her expression settled back into composure, even took on a note of righteous confidence.

"Oh, this is for Tyler. He twisted his ankle playing basketball last time and his old shoes were done for, but he didn't want to spend money on something nice for himself. As his supervisor, this counts as a work gesture, it's reimbursable."

She said it smoothly, naturally, like she'd rehearsed it more than a few times.

Zeke looked at her without a word. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth—he'd studied this face for four years, knew it well enough to picture with his eyes shut. But right now, the deliberate calm on it made her look like a stranger.

"Let me see the reimbursement form," he said.

Nikki blinked. "The form? The receipt... the receipt hasn't been printed yet. The store said they were out of paper, told me to come back in a few days. I'll get it sorted then."

"Which store?" Zeke pressed.

"Just... the sporting goods store over at Beams Mall," Nikki said, her eyes drifting a little. "I think you've been there before."

Zeke had, in fact, been to that store. He nodded and didn't push further, only said, "Bring me the paperwork when you get the reimbursement, I want to check it over."

"Sure." Nikki seemed to relax, reaching for the box. "I'll go ahead and put this away for now, and once the receipt comes through..."

"Just leave it here," Zeke cut her off. "It's going to someone else anyway, no point moving it back and forth."

Nikki's hand froze halfway there. She hesitated, then pulled it back. "That works too."

The room sank back into that familiar, suffocating silence. Nikki stood there for a moment, then said quietly, "I'll... I'll go make dinner."

"I said I don't need any." Zeke picked the remote back up and turned the volume on. "I already ate."

That was a lie. He hadn't eaten anything all afternoon. But right now, he had no appetite at all.

Nikki stood there, looking at the hard line of his profile, her lips parting slightly. In the end, she said nothing, just turned and walked back to the bedroom.

That night, the two of them didn't speak again.

Zeke stayed in the study late, and only crept out to wash up once he was sure Nikki was asleep. Passing through the living room, the black shoebox still sat on the coffee table, a silent witness.

The next day, Monday, Zeke went to work as usual. Before he left, he glanced at the coffee table. The box was still there, untouched.

The whole day was busy and full. The company had taken on a new project, a series of complex corrosion-resistance tests, and Zeke was the technical lead. He threw himself completely into the data and the experiments; it was the only way to keep from dwelling on the mess at home, even for a little while.

At five-thirty, Tammy came by the lab to find him and handed him a document. "Zeke, this is the list of special reagents we need to order for the project. Take a look and let me know if anything's missing."

Zeke took it and skimmed through quickly. "This should cover it for now. If anything comes up, I'll get back to you by tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good." Tammy nodded but didn't leave right away. She looked at the faint shadows under his eyes and said, gently, "The project's been a lot of pressure lately. Make sure you're getting some rest too."

"Thank you, Tammy, I'm fine," Zeke said.

Tammy didn't say anything more and turned to go. Her footsteps faded down the empty hallway, disappearing eventually toward the elevators.

Zeke kept working until past seven before packing up to head home. He took a detour to a small diner he used to frequent and had a bowl of beef stew. The hot broth settled into his empty stomach, finally giving him something solid to hold onto.

He got home at eight-ten. The living room lights were on, the TV playing, but Nikki wasn't out there. The bathroom door was closed, water running behind it; she was showering.

Zeke changed his shoes, set down his bag, and was about to head to the study when his eyes caught the phone screen lit up on the coffee table.

It was Nikki's phone. She usually left it out there while she showered.

The screen showed a preview of a new message. The sender was "Tyler," the visible text cut off partway through: "Nikki, the shoes came, thank you so much! I don't even..."

The rest of the message had been collapsed.

Zeke stared at it, not moving. The water was still running, and beneath it, he could hear the faint sound of humming. Nikki seemed to be in a good mood.

His gaze drifted from the phone screen to the coffee table where the black shoebox had been. It was gone. Clearly, sometime before he got home, Nikki had already sent the shoes off.

The phone screen went dark, then lit up again a few seconds later with a new notification, this time a bank alert. It popped up at the top of the screen, the text plain to read.

"[BankAlert] Your account ending in xxxx made a purchase of 400.00 dollars on Month X, Day X, at 6:47 p.m. Merchant: Beams Mall Apex Sporting Goods. Category: personal items. Available balance..."

The date was the day before yesterday, Saturday, six-forty-seven in the evening.

The merchant name matched exactly what Nikki had said. But the category was "personal items," not "office supplies," not "business expense."

Zeke stood frozen, feeling the blood in his veins turn cold, drop by drop. He looked at the frosted glass of the bathroom door, the vague shape moving behind it, listening to the running water and the faint humming, and it all suddenly felt absurd.

He walked slowly over to the coffee table and picked up Nikki's phone.

The screen was locked. Without quite thinking, he typed in the number he knew so well, their anniversary, 1015.

Wrong password.

He paused, then tried Nikki's birthday, 0912.

The screen unlocked.

The home screen was clean, the usual social apps lined up at the front. Zeke tapped open her messages, and right at the top of the list sat the chat with Tyler. He opened it, and the newest message was the one he'd already seen.

[Nikki, the shoes came, thank you so much! I don't even know what to say. These are way too nice. I feel bad you spent so much...]

A string of grateful, teary-eyed emojis followed.

He scrolled up and found Nikki's reply: [I bought a birthday gift for you. Play hard and try not to twist your ankle again.]

Tyler had sent back a crying-with-joy emoji.

Zeke backed out of the chat and opened her digital wallet, pulling up the transaction history. He filtered by date and found yesterday's charge.

Amount: 400.00 dollars.

Merchant: Beams Mall Apex Sporting Goods.

Type: Purchase.

In the notes field, Nikki had written it out herself: [Birthday gift for Tyler.]

Zeke stared at that note for a long, long time. Long enough that the water in the bathroom stopped, and the hair dryer started up, then stopped too. Long enough to hear the bathroom doorknob turn.

He quickly backed out of the app, turned off the screen, and set the phone back down exactly where he'd found it, then walked over to the living room window and stood with his back to the bathroom.

Nikki came out in her pajamas, toweling off her hair. Seeing Zeke standing at the window, she paused. "You're back? Did you eat?"

"Yeah," Zeke said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Okay." Nikki walked over to the coffee table, picked up her phone, glanced at it, swiped a few times, and seemed to reply to a message.

Then she set it back down and told Zeke, "I'm going to bed. Need to be up early tomorrow for inventory at the store."

"Sure." Zeke didn't turn around.

Nikki stood in the living room for a few seconds, seeming to want to say something, but in the end just sighed and turned toward the bedroom.

The door clicked shut softly.

Zeke stood alone in the living room. The faint moonlight filtered in through the window. He didn't turn on the overhead light, just stood there in the dim glow, watching his own blurred reflection in the glass.

A long while later, he walked over to the couch and sat down slowly, sinking into the cushions. On the coffee table, Nikki's phone screen lit up briefly, then went dark again.

He sat there in the darkness, unmoving, like a silent statue.