Seattle at three in the morning never truly sleeps, but it’s eerily silent. The characteristic drizzle of the Pacific Northwest casts a thin film, glistening under the dull yellow streetlights on Capitol Hill. I stepped out of the Uber, a chill seeping through my thin coat. The five-hour delay from Chicago had drained my last ounce of energy, but the thought of finally being able to lie back in my familiar down comfort and Mark’s warm embrace urged me to quicken my pace.
I pulled my silver Samsonite suitcase, the wheels grinding against the cobblestone pavement with a dry, sharp sound in the stillness. Our penthouse apartment was on the top floor of a renovated, classic red brick building. I loved it – the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline.
I inserted the key into the lock. A soft click. The house was pitch black, only the light from the microwave in the kitchen casting a lonely, bluish glow. The scent of sandalwood candles that Mark liked still lingered, but something strange lurked in the air – a hint of a strong, cheap perfume, a mix of orchid and musk that I had never used.
My heart skipped a beat. My instincts as a woman who had worked in auditing for ten years told me: something was amiss in the balance sheet of my life.
I didn’t turn on the living room light. I walked silently across the thick wool carpet. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, a faint yellow light emanating from the bedside lamp.
I pushed the door open.
The scene before me was like a malfunctioning slow-motion film. Mark was fast asleep, his breathing even. Beside him, the golden hair spread across the pillow wasn’t mine. She lay on her side, one bare arm draped across my husband’s chest. They looked like a perfect picture of betrayal, wrapped in the Egyptian silk blanket I had personally chosen for our fifth wedding anniversary.
The pain didn’t come immediately. Instead, a cold emptiness, a cruel logic, took over my mind. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I looked at the wall clock: 3:12 a.m.
I lifted the heavy Samsonite suitcase. My arms trembled, but I used all my strength to put it down. Not gently, but with a free-fall right in the middle of the foot of the bed, where their legs were intertwined under the blanket.
CRASH!
The bed shook violently. Mark jumped up like a compressed spring. The woman let out a short shriek, instinctively pulling the blanket over herself.
“What the hell…?” Mark stammered, his eyes still hazy from sleep, until his gaze fell upon me.
I stood there, still wearing my rain-soaked overcoat, my high heels still on, and my hand still on the handle of my luggage. The yellow light from the bedside lamp cast a glow on my face, making me look like a ghost who had just returned from the dead.
“Hello,” I said, my voice so calm it frightened me. “The flight arrived earlier than expected. And it seems our room is more cramped than expected.”
“Claire… I… you shouldn’t be here right now,” Mark blurted out the most idiotic thing an adulterer could say. He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes frantically scanning the room for a nonexistent escape.
The girl beside him – she looked younger.
