Chapter 2, OF THE PERFUME ON HIS COLLAR: Seeds of Poison

The afternoon sky had that heavy, colorless weight that promised rain but never delivered it. The air in the Bennett house felt the same a held breath that wouldn’t release. Clara moved through the rooms as though they were stage sets she no longer believed in. She straightened cushions, folded throws, wiped spotless counters, each small movement an attempt to steady herself against the quiet.

Mark had texted at lunch: Working late again. Don’t wait up.

A line so familiar now it might as well have been a lullaby.

She tried to eat dinner with Ethan, but his chatter only made her smile too tightly. When he spoke of Ms. Rowen again how she’d helped him draw clouds that looked like real ones, how she’d said he had an “artist’s imagination” Clara felt something tremor deep in her ribs. A pulse of envy, perhaps, or the echo of suspicion taking new shape.

After he went to bed, she lingered outside his room, watching the small shape of him under the quilt, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. The purity of that sound nearly undid her. She thought of what Ms. Rowen had said — Men like your husband… women like you pay the price.

It had sounded sympathetic at the time. Now it felt like prophecy.

The next morning, Clara found herself in the car without deciding to be. The school lot was half empty, the air faintly metallic with the smell of rain on asphalt. She watched through the windshield as Ms. Rowen crossed the playground, bending to speak to a student. Her blouse was pale blue today, soft against her skin, and even at this distance Clara could imagine the scent — that same jasmine brightness that haunted her house.

She almost started the engine to leave. Almost.

Instead, she rolled down the window and called out, “Ms. Rowen!”

The teacher turned, surprise flickering before she smiled. “Mrs. Bennett! Everything all right?”

Clara stepped out of the car, smoothing her hair though the wind ruined it instantly. “Yes, I — I just wanted to thank you. Ethan seems happier this term. You’ve been wonderful with him.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

The teacher’s voice was always gentle, but there was a precision beneath it — as if every word were chosen after a pause you couldn’t hear.

They walked toward the edge of the playground together. The autumn light slid between clouds, silver and cold.

“Children sense tension at home,” Ms. Rowen said softly. “It can unsettle them.”

Clara stiffened. “Tension?”

“Oh — I don’t mean anything dramatic,” she said quickly. “Just … fatigue. You and your husband both work so hard. He must be exhausted — those late nights.”

“How do you know about that?”

The question escaped before Clara could catch it.

Ms. Rowen smiled, unbothered. “Ethan mentioned it. He worries that you eat dinner alone.”

Clara felt heat rise in her throat. “He shouldn’t have to worry.”

“Children pick up what we hide,” the teacher murmured. “Sometimes we underestimate what they see.”

Then, with that same sympathetic tone, “You deserve honesty, Mrs. Bennett. Don’t let anyone make you feel foolish for needing it.”

When Clara drove away, her hands trembled against the steering wheel.

That night the house was heavy with stormlight, blue flashes rolling through the windows. Mark came in late again, soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. She offered to hang his coat, and while he went upstairs, she reached into the pocket, more out of impulse than intent.

A receipt.

Riverstone Hotel – Bar Lounge – One Glass of Chardonnay.

The date was from two nights ago. The signature scrawled at the bottom was his. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

She folded it, slipped it into her pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed when he came out of the shower. His skin smelled clean, neutral, scrubbed of every trace.

“Rough day?” she asked.

He smiled tiredly. “You could say that.”

“At the office?”

“Where else?”

He laughed lightly, then kissed her forehead. Water dripped from his hair onto her sleeve, cold as rain.

When he turned away, she said quietly, “Do you ever go to the Riverstone Hotel?”

He froze, towel still in his hand. “What?”

“I found a receipt.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Clara, I meet clients there sometimes. It’s convenient. You know that.”

“Clients who wear perfume?”

He exhaled sharply. “You’re doing this again.”

Again. Always that word, slicing between them. She turned away, pretending to adjust the lamp so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in her eyes.

Days blurred. She no longer cooked, no longer read. Her thoughts looped between memory and invention. The more she tried to reason herself back to calm, the more her mind found new corners to darken.

Then, one evening, her phone vibrated on the counter.

A message from an unknown number:

He’s not at work. If you want the truth, come to 12 Briar Lane. 8 p.m.

Her throat dried.

She called the number — no answer. She stared at the words until the letters blurred.

At 7:50 she was still in her car, parked two streets away, gripping the steering wheel. The neighborhood was quiet — a row of houses with curtains drawn, the smell of wet leaves in the air. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked like someone half-erased.

She drove home instead, ashamed of the shaking in her hands.

When she unlocked the door, a familiar voice greeted her from the hall.

“Mrs. Bennett! I hope I’m not intruding.”

Ms. Rowen stood there, holding a folder and wearing an expression of practiced concern.

“I was just passing by,” she said, stepping inside before Clara could answer. “Ethan left some drawings at school.”

The jasmine scent struck her immediately. It filled the entryway, dizzying, intimate.

Clara took the folder mechanically. “Thank you.”

“You seem pale,” Ms. Rowen said softly. “Has something happened?”

Clara hesitated. “I … I got a strange message. I think someone’s trying to …”

“Warn you?” The teacher’s eyes darkened, compassionate and knowing. “Sometimes people reach out when they see what we refuse to. You shouldn’t ignore it.”

Clara’s pulse hammered. “You think he’s …?”

Ms. Rowen laid a hand on her arm. “You already know the answer, don’t you?”

For a moment the world tilted — the ticking clock, the whisper of the storm outside, the warmth of that jasmine hand against her sleeve. Something inside her leaned toward belief, grateful for it, even as fear coiled tight in her gut.

When Ms. Rowen left, the house felt emptied of air.

Upstairs, Mark slept easily, his breathing deep. Clara stood in the doorway watching him, the faint moonlight across his face. She wanted to love him the way she used to. She wanted to stop imagining the other life he might be living just beyond her sight.

But in the dark, the perfume lingered still — not jasmine now, but smoke.

End of Chapter 2 — Seeds of Poison.