Page 24

The town hadn’t changed—at least not on the surface. Same narrow streets. Same charming town square. Same mountains hemming us in, watching patiently like they knew all our secrets.

What had changed was me.

The closer I got to our house, the harder my hands clenched on the steering wheel. My heart alternated between sprinting and stumbling. I hadn’t been here since the night I left with a suitcase and shaking hands, too numb to cry.

I parked at the curb and sat for a moment, just looking.

The house looked… fine. The lawn was mowed and the flower bed under the window was full of blooming plants. Surprisingly, they were doing well. That was odd. I was expecting neglect.

I got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it.

I half-expected him to fling open the door before I could use it. Part of me hoped he would. Part of me prayed he wouldn’t.

He didn’t.

I knocked and waited. Nothing.

I knocked louder, and this time didn’t wait as long before ringing the doorbell. When I was met with nothing, I reached into my purse and pulled out my key.

My fingers fumbled a bit at the lock. Old muscle memory finally kicked in, and the deadbolt turned with a familiar click.

I stepped inside.

The first thing that hit me was the smell.

Clean.

Not just not dirty—but that sharp tang of cleaner, laundry detergent, and something lemony that had never existed in our shared history in this concentration.

The second thing that hit me was the silence.

I closed the door softly behind me and stood in the entryway, taking it in.

The living room looked… wrong.

It was spotless.

The coffee table was clear. No stray magazines, no remote half-hanging off the edge, no empty water glass with a ring on the wood. The coasters were actually stacked. The throw pillows were arranged like they’d been posed for a photo shoot.

The afghan—my afghan—was folded with geometric precision over the back of the couch.

A chill slid down my spine.

“Okay,” I whispered. “That’s new.”

Zarek wasn’t messy in a disaster sense. He just lived. Shoes kicked off wherever. Jacket draped over a chair. Bed in a permanent state of half-made. Dishes migrating toward the sink in slow, inevitable procession.

This?

This looked like a staging house.

I moved farther in, my footsteps muffled on the freshly vacuumed carpet. I could see the lines. Perfect, straight tracks where someone had gone back and forth, back and forth, until there wasn’t a single footprint left.

My chest tightened.

I walked into the kitchen. Counters: wiped. Sink: empty. Dish rack: nothing. Not even a rogue fork. The trash can had a new liner. No crumpled paper towels peeking out. No takeout containers. The fridge door was free of smudges; the magnets were all lined up along the top edge in a neat row instead of chaotic clusters. I opened the fridge automatically. Inside, items were arranged in insane precision—condiments grouped together, eggs front and center, prepped containers of grilled chicken and vegetables in a perfect grid.

Zarek did not do meal prep.