Chapter 1The Traitors Under My Roof

The door wasn't locked.

I stood on my own welcome mat, my suitcase heavy in my hand, the keys still buried somewhere in my purse.

The door was cracked open. Just an inch.

The living room lights were on. On the coffee table sat a half-empty glass of water, a ring of milky residue clinging to the rim.

I had been out of state for three months. This house was supposed to be empty.

From the direction of the master bedroom, a cry broke the silence.

A baby’s cry.

I didn't have a child.

The crying paused for a second, followed by a woman’s voice. Soft, cooing. "Shh, don't cry, sweetie. Daddy will be home soon."

Daddy.

I set my suitcase down. The wheels knocked against the doorframe with a dull thud.

In the master bedroom, the woman’s voice abruptly stopped.

* * *

The shoe cabinet in the entryway was open.

The top row was exactly how I had left it—my running shoes, my heels, my fleece house slippers. They were all there, but they had been shoved aggressively into the corner.

The middle two rows were filled with shoes I didn't recognize.

Women’s shoes. Pink fuzzy slippers, a pair of thick recovery grip socks, some flats with little bows.

The bottom shelf was entirely dedicated to a baby. Tiny socks and soft-soled booties, folded with sickening neatness.

I stared at the pink slippers.

The soles were worn down. Whoever they belonged to hadn't just moved in.

The master bedroom door creaked open.

A woman walked out, bouncing a baby in her arms. She was young, her hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing a faded, oversized sleep shirt—the kind that had been washed a hundred times.

She saw me and froze.

"Who are you..."

I looked at the infant in her arms. A newborn, swaddled in a pale blue blanket.

The swaddle was brand new. But the small knitted throw draped over the baby? I recognized that. It was a wedding gift from a friend. I had kept it stored on the top shelf of my closet.

"This is my house," I said.

She took a step back.

"Greg said... he said you two were already divorced."

I didn't say a word.

I walked past her, into the living room.

Next to the milky glass of water on the coffee table sat a tin of baby formula, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle sterilizer. The sterilizer was plugged into the wall, its power light glowing a steady, cheerful green.

The TV I bought. The sectional I picked out. The bookshelves I spent three weekends assembling.

Everything was still here.

It just wasn't mine anymore.

I turned my head toward the kitchen.

A piece of paper was pinned to the fridge, held up by the decorative magnets I bought in Maine.

The paper read: Baby's Feeding Schedule — 7:00 AM Formula, 10:00 AM Puree, 12:30 PM Egg yolk...

The handwriting was bubbly, complete with a little hand-drawn sun in the corner.

I reached out and ripped the paper down.

The magnet clattered to the hardwood floor.

The woman stood paralyzed in the hallway, too terrified to step closer. The baby started crying again.

"What month did you move in?" I asked.

She hesitated. "...April."

April.

I left for my work trip on March 15th.

Two weeks.

He only waited two weeks.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Greg’s name lit up the screen.

I didn't answer.

It rang three times, then went silent.

A second later, a text popped up: Hey honey, did your flight land? I have to stay late at the office. I'll be home a bit later.

Honey.

Stay late.

Home.

Which home?

I locked my phone and walked into the master bedroom.

The bedsheets had been changed. The slate-gray linen duvet cover I had put on before I left was gone, replaced by a cheap pink floral pattern. On the nightstand sat a baby monitor, a tube of nipple cream, and a bottle of postnatal vitamins.

I pulled open my closet.

The left side used to be mine.

Except, it wasn't anymore.

Every hanger was occupied by clothes I had never seen in my life. Sundresses, nursing tops, oversized cardigans.

Where were my clothes?

I yanked open the heavy bottom drawer of the dresser.

There they were.

My clothes had been hastily folded and violently jammed into the bottom drawer, packed so tightly the fabrics were deeply creased.

Sitting right on top of the crushed fabric was my marriage certificate.

I pulled it out.

I opened it.

In the photo, Greg and I were leaning into each other, smiling at the camera.

I ran my index finger along the edge of the heavy paper.

It was sharp.

It left a fine, stinging line of red across my skin. A paper cut.

I snapped the certificate shut.

Out in the living room, the woman was on the phone. She was whispering frantically, but I caught one sentence: "...she's back."

I walked out of the bedroom.

I walked straight to the balcony.

Clothes were hanging on the drying rack. Adult clothes, baby clothes, a whole row of them swaying slightly in the AC breeze.

I had installed that drying rack myself.

I stood on the balcony for a long moment.

My phone vibrated again. Greg.

This time, I swiped to answer.

"Harper—"

"How long until you get home?"

A beat of dead silence on the other end of the line.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice tight.

I stared at the row of clothes that didn't belong to me.

"Tell me when you get here."

I hung up.

A few minutes later, the screech of tires echoed from the street below. Then, the heavy slam of a car door. Rushed. Frantic.

The elevator pinged in the hallway.

I sat on the living room sofa. A $400 sectional from IKEA. I had hauled the heavy flat-pack boxes from the warehouse to the car all by myself because he told me he had to work late that Saturday.

The front door burst open.

Greg stood in the doorway, chest heaving.

He looked at me. Then his eyes darted to the woman cowering near the bedroom hallway.

Then, he did something I truly didn't expect.

He turned around and closed the front door.

He closed it incredibly softly. Gently pulling it until it clicked.

Like he was terrified the neighbors might hear.

"Harper, please, just let me explain."

When he said those words, he wasn't looking at me.

He was looking at her.

He was shooting her a desperate, silent look.

I saw it all.