“Excuse me.”
She placed the flowers down.
“Rachel?”
Hearing my name from her mouth made the store seem to tilt.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ivy.”
“My son says you visit my house when I’m gone.”
She glanced toward Jamie.
“I think you should speak to Owen.”
“I’m speaking to you.”
Her fingers tightened around the strap of the black case.
“I promised him I wouldn’t explain.”
“A married man asked you to keep secrets from his wife, and that did not concern you?”
Her expression changed.
“It isn’t what you think.”
Everyone says that when it is exactly what you think.
“Do you go into my bedroom?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
The answer struck harder than denial would have.
I turned the cart away before I said something Jamie would remember forever.
Behind me, Ivy called my name.
I did not stop.
In the parking lot, Jamie began crying.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. Daddy said the surprise would break if I told.”
I knelt beside him.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Are you mad at Daddy?”
I could not answer.
I loaded the groceries into the car and called Owen.
He did not pick up.
I called again.
Voicemail.
My mind filled the silence with images.
Owen and Ivy upstairs.
The locked room.
The perfume.
The black case.
The blue paint I had found beneath Jamie’s fingernails.
For weeks, Owen had claimed the paint came from preschool.
Had my husband been bringing another woman into our home while involving our child in the deception?
By the time we reached the house, I had already imagined divorce lawyers, custody agreements and telling our families.
I left the groceries in the car.
Inside, the house was silent.
The spare bedroom remained locked.
Jamie stood beside me at the top of the stairs.
“Daddy keeps the key in the drawer under his socks.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“He gets it when Miss Ivy comes.”
I entered our bedroom.
The scent was stronger there.
Sweet and floral.
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