Chapter 1: The Lock That Would Not Turn

For three years, I lived across the country to raise our grandson while my husband stayed alone in Chicago—or so I believed.

Two days before Christmas, I came home early to surprise him. My key no longer fit the lock.

When Harold opened the door, he was wearing a silk robe I had never seen. Behind him stood another woman in house slippers. Her toothbrush was beside his. Her clothes were in my closet. And for two years, she had been sleeping in my bed.

Then I checked our bank account.

She hadn’t only taken my place.

Harold had been giving her my retirement, my home—and even my mother’s jewelry.

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For three years, I lived in Seattle and raised my grandson.

My husband, Harold Bennett, stayed behind in our apartment in Chicago.

Three years. More than a thousand days.

Every evening I called him on video. Most of the time he was either walking in the courtyard or sitting at the dining table with a chessboard in front of him. The line he said most often was, "Everything is fine here. You just take good care of Noah."

I believed him.

Two days before Christmas, my son Daniel bought me a train ticket.

"Mom," he said, "Dad is spending the holiday alone again. Go back early and surprise him. Emily and I will bring Noah over on New Year's Eve."

So I went.

It was snowing lightly when I stepped out of Union Station. I had two cartons of the cigarettes Harold liked, a roasted chicken from the place near Daniel's apartment, and a container of beef I had simmered myself the night before.

I took a cab straight home.

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor. I set the bags down, took out my key, and slid it into the lock.

It would not turn.

I stood there for two seconds.

Then I knocked.

Harold opened the door.

He was sixty-two, wearing a dark blue silk robe I had never seen before. His hair was combed neatly back, and his face was ruddy, almost pleased, until he saw me.

The smile froze at the corner of his mouth.

"Margaret? Why are you back?"

Before I could answer, I saw the woman behind him.

She looked about fifty. Her hair was damp. She wore a flowered house dress and held a towel in one hand.

She looked surprised, too, but not frightened.

I lowered my eyes. On the shoe rack sat a pair of pink fuzzy slippers with little white rabbits stitched on the toes.

They were not mine.

I bent down, picked up the container of beef that had almost slipped from my hand, and straightened.

"Harold," I said, "aren't you going to introduce me?"

His throat moved.

"This is... Nora. Nora Lawson. She lives downstairs. She just came up to help me clean."

"She cleans in slippers? And you changed the lock?"

I looked past him into the living room.

There were two cups of tea on the coffee table. One had lipstick on the rim. A green plant stood beside the television cabinet. Before I left, Harold had never kept a plant alive for a week. A thin blanket with pink flowers lay over the back of the couch.

The bathroom door was half open. On the sink sat two toothbrushes, one blue and one pink, pushed into the same cup.

Thirty-nine years.

Harold and I had been married thirty-nine years. When we lived together, he used to argue with me about which cup held which toothbrush.

The woman folded the towel over her arm.

"Hello, Mrs. Bennett. I'm Nora. Harold said you were in Seattle helping with your grandchild. I came over now and then to give him a hand."

A hand.

That was a neat little word.

I put the chicken and the cigarettes on the cabinet and changed into my old slippers. The ones I had left behind had been shoved into the farthest corner.

"How long have you been giving him a hand?"

Nora did not answer.

Harold hurried in. "Margaret, don't misunderstand. We're neighbors. We look out for each other."

"I asked her."

Nora smoothed her wet hair behind one ear.

"Almost two years."

Two years.

For two years I had been waking before dawn in Seattle to cook breakfast, pack a lunch box, walk Noah to preschool, wash clothes, make dinner, and stay up with him when he had a fever.

For two years she had been living in my home.

"Harold," I said, keeping my voice flat because anything else would have cracked, "how many sets of bowls are in the kitchen?"

He said nothing.

I walked into the kitchen.

In the cabinet were two bowls, two plates, two pairs of chopsticks. On the refrigerator door was a handwritten menu: Monday, ribs. Tuesday, steamed fish. Wednesday, sweet-and-sour pork.

It was not Harold's handwriting. Harold could barely boil instant noodles.

Inside the refrigerator, containers were stacked in tidy rows. Each one had a label. I picked up one box and read the words written on the lid.

Harold's favorite.

My fingers tightened around the plastic until my nails went pale.

I put it back.

Then I went to the bedroom.

The sheets were different. I had left gray-blue sheets on that bed. Now the bed was covered in pale purple flowers.

There was a glass of water on each nightstand. On Harold's side sat his blood pressure pills. On the other side sat a jar of face cream and a bottle of vitamins.

The cream was the expensive kind.

In Seattle I used whatever half-empty lotion Emily no longer wanted.

I did not open the closet.

I did not need to.

I came back to the living room.

"Nora Lawson. Are you single?"

"Widowed. Five years."

"Children?"

"One son. Out of state."

"You lived in my apartment for two years. The neighbors knew?"

She looked away.

Harold said, "Margaret, let me explain."

"Do not talk." I took my key from my pocket and laid it on the coffee table. "When did you change the lock?"

"Last year. The old one was broken. The property manager said everyone should replace-"

"The property manager changes locks without telling the owner's wife?" I looked at him. "You changed it because you were afraid I would come home without warning."

He shut his mouth.

Nora was calmer than he was. She picked up her towel and folded it once more.

"Mrs. Bennett, if this makes you uncomfortable, I can leave."

"Leave for where? Downstairs?"

Her eyes flickered.

Harold's face went white.

I nodded. "I understand."

I picked up the cup without lipstick and drank a mouthful of cold tea.

"Harold, where did the silk robe come from?"

"I bought it."

"You wore ten-dollar undershirts for half your life. Now you buy silk?"

Nora said, "I bought it."

"With whose money?"

No one answered.

I took out my phone and opened the bank app.

"My pension is thirty-two hundred a month. Yours is forty-eight hundred. You told me you sent Daniel a thousand every month and saved the rest." I turned the screen toward him. "Nineteen monthly transfers to Nora Lawson. Two thousand each. Thirty-eight thousand dollars."

His knees shook.

"That is the price you put on thirty-nine years of marriage. Two thousand dollars a month to buy yourself company."