Chapter 3

My new apartment reeked of damp cardboard and lemon cleaner.

It was a cramped studio on the wrong side of town, paid for with the stack of cash I made from selling my grandmother's jewelry.

I had moved out of the master bedroom three days ago. Garrison hadn't even noticed. In his mind, I was still staying at the hospital.

I sat on the floor, counting my tips from the diner where I picked up shifts.

Forty-two dollars.

Garrison spent more than that on his morning coffee run for the office.

Thunder rattled the single pane of glass in the window.

I checked my phone. No messages from Garrison. Just a lonely notification from the weather app.

A sharp knock on the door made me jump.

I froze. No one knew I was here except the hospital and the landlord.

I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

It was Garrison.

He was soaked. His expensive suit was dark with rain, his hair plastered to his forehead.

I opened the door.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking wildly out of place in the dimly lit hallway with its peeling paint.

"You haven't been home," he said. "The housekeeper said your closet is empty."

"I told you I would be out of your way."

He sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. He looked exhausted. For a second, just a second, I saw the boy I used to study with in the university library.

"Janet, please. Come home. This is ridiculous."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

"I forgot your birthday," he said. "I'm sorry. Things have been... chaotic with the merger."

He handed me the box.

I opened it.

Inside was a fountain pen. It was heavy, silver, and obnoxiously expensive.

"It's a limited edition," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "For your writing."

I stared at it.

"I draw, Garrison," I said softly. "I don't write. I use pencils. Graphite."

He blinked. "Right. Well, it's a nice pen. You can sign contracts with it."

He didn't remember.

He didn't remember that I had dismantled my drafting table years ago to make room for his contracts.

"Thank you," I said. My voice was hollow.

I put the box on the cheap laminate counter.

"I need you to come back," he said, stepping into the room. He didn't wipe his feet. "The merger paperwork is a mess. The new paralegals are incompetent. I need someone who knows the history of the firm."

"You have Kayla," I said.

He scoffed. "Kayla is the face. You are the brain. You know that."

He tried to smile. It was a charming, practiced smile.

"Remember when we talked about our future? You wanted that little coffee shop. If you help me with this merger, I will buy it for you. I promise."

I looked at him.

"I wanted to design a coffee shop for my mother," I corrected him. "So she could sit and read while I worked upstairs. That was the dream."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Right, right. Whatever it was. I will make it happen."

"My mother is in a coma, Garrison. She can't sit anywhere."

He paused. "Is she? I thought she was improving."

He didn't know. He hadn't asked in weeks.

"She took a turn," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said automatically. "But look, Janet. I really need you. Just for a few weeks."

He reached for my hand.

His phone rang.

The shrill ringtone cut through the sound of the rain.

He looked at the screen. His face went pale.

"Kayla?" he answered.

I watched him.

"What? Slow down. Who is following you?"

He listened, his eyes widening.

"Stay inside. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone. I am coming."

He hung up.

"I have to go," he said, already turning toward the door.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Kayla thinks someone is stalking her. She's hysterical. She says she's going to hurt herself if I don't get there."

"Garrison," I said. "I'm your wife. You just asked me to come home."

He looked at me, his hand on the doorknob.

"She's scared, Janet. She needs me."

"I need you," I said. It was a test.

"You are strong," he said. "You always have been. Kayla is fragile."

He opened the door.

"I will call you tomorrow."

He ran out into the rain.

He left me standing in the cold apartment clutching a pen I couldn't use, abandoned by a husband who didn't know me.

He didn't look back.

Not once.