Chapter 3: A Name I Hadn't Said Out Loud in Years
"What do you mean I might know them?"
David sat down slowly.
He didn't look at me right away.
He looked at the monitor on the table.
"The third night I went outside," he said, "I got close enough to see the car.
It was parked at the end of the driveway with the lights off.
I couldn't see a face.
But I got the plate."
"You got the plate and you didn't tell me?"
"I ran it through a friend at work." He paused.
"The car is registered to a man named Gary Pellman."
The room went completely still.
I sat down.
I didn't choose to.
My legs just stopped working.
"Say that again."
"Gary Pellman." David watched my face.
"You know him."
It wasn't a question.
"He's my ex-husband's brother," I said.
"From my first marriage.
Before you.
We haven't spoken in — David, it's been eleven years."
"I know."
"Why would Gary be outside our house?"
"That's what I've been trying to figure out for three weeks."
I pressed both hands flat on the table.
Something about the cold surface helped me think.
"Did he come back every night?"
"Not every night.
Every few nights.
Always between two and four in the morning.
Always the same spot.
Below the bedroom window on your side."
"My side," I repeated.
"Your side."
I stood up and walked to the kitchen window.
The backyard was dark.
Ordinary.
The same yard I'd looked at for nine years.
"David, why didn't you just tell me?"
He came to stand beside me.
"Because the first time I saw him, I thought maybe I was wrong.
Maybe it was a neighbor.
Maybe it was nothing.
And then I thought — if I tell her and it turns out to be nothing, I've scared her for no reason.
And if I tell her and it's real—"
"You'd have to watch me be scared anyway."
"Yes."
I turned to look at him.
His jaw was tight.
His eyes were tired in a way I hadn't noticed before — not the tired of bad sleep, but the tired of carrying something alone for too long.
"How many nights have you been watching?" I asked.
"Since the first time I saw the light."
Three weeks.
He had been standing guard for three weeks without saying a word.
"Did you confront him?"
"Not yet.
I wanted to know more first.
I wanted to know if you had any idea why he'd come back."
"I don't," I said.
"I swear to you, I don't."
David nodded slowly.
"Then we need to find out."
He picked up his phone from the counter and set it in front of me.
On the screen was a photograph — grainy, taken in the dark, but clear enough.
A man standing at the edge of our driveway.
Hands in his pockets.
Face turned toward the house.
Toward my window.
I hadn't seen Gary Pellman since the divorce.
Since the day his brother, my first husband, signed the papers and I walked out of that life for good.
I had never looked back.
I had built something new.
Something quiet and safe and mine.
"There's something else," David said.
I looked up.
He reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out a small envelope.
Plain white.
No stamp.
No return address.
My name was written on the front in handwriting I recognized immediately.
It wasn't Gary's handwriting.
It was his brother's.
It was my first husband's handwriting.
My hands were shaking again as I reached for it.
"Where did you find this?"
"Under the front mat," David said.
"Four days ago.
I've been trying to decide whether to give it to you."
"You should have given it to me immediately."
"I know." His voice was quiet.
"I'm sorry."
I turned the envelope over.
It was sealed.
Whatever was inside, it had been waiting four days for me to open it.
I set it back on the table.
"His name is Ray," I said.
"Raymond Pellman.
We were married for four years.
It ended badly.
I haven't heard from him since the divorce was finalized."
"What do you mean, ended badly?"
I looked at my husband — my real husband, the one who had spent three weeks sleeping on the wrong side of the bed just to keep me safe — and I said the thing I had not said out loud in eleven years.
"He didn't want to let me go."
David's expression didn't change.
But his hand moved to cover mine on the table.
"Open it," he said.
May you like
"I'm right here."
I picked up the envelope.
