Chapter 4: The Woman in the Kitchen
My first thought was completely rational: someone had broken in.
My second thought arrived before I could act on the first: the coat was expensive.
Camel-colored wool, a silk lining visible at the collar.
Whoever had left it there had hung it carefully, not thrown it.
I walked to the kitchen doorway.
A woman was sitting at my kitchen table.
Mid-forties, dark hair pulled back, a cup of tea in both hands like she had made herself at home.
She looked up when I appeared, and she didn't flinch.
"You must be Olivia," she said.
I didn't move.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Diane." She set the cup down.
"I think we need to talk."
The room tilted slightly.
"How did you get into my house?"
"Daniel gave me a key." She said it without apology, without drama, like she was reporting a fact.
"About four months ago.
I've never used it before tonight.
I used it tonight because I needed to speak to you before he got home, and I didn't think you'd open the door if I knocked."
"You're right," I said.
"I wouldn't have."
"I know." She folded her hands around the cup again.
"I'm not here to make excuses for what happened.
I'm here because I found out something tonight, and you deserve to know it before he walks through that door."
I stayed in the doorway.
"You have about thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn't call the police."
"He told me you had an arrangement," she said.
"He told me your marriage had been open for over a year.
That you both agreed to it.
That you were seeing someone yourself."
The air left the room.
"He said that."
"He showed me a message.
From your phone number.
Saying you'd agreed to the arrangement and that you were happy." She reached into her jacket pocket and set her own phone on the table, screen up, pushed it toward me.
"I kept a screenshot.
Because something felt wrong and I didn't know what it was until tonight."
I crossed the room.
Looked at the screen.
It was a text conversation.
Daniel's number at the top.
And below it, a number I recognized as mine — my contact name, my photo — sending messages I had never written.
*I think this is good for us.
I need space too.
Let's just not make it complicated.*
*Yes.
I agree.
Let's not tell anyone.*
*I'm happy if you're happy.*
I read them three times.
"He faked these," I said.
"I think so.
Yes."
"He faked messages from my phone to show you.
So you'd believe the marriage was already open.
So you wouldn't feel like—"
"Like I was helping someone cheat on his wife," Diane said quietly.
"Yes."
I put the phone down.
Sat in the chair across from her.
My legs had made the decision before my mind caught up.
"How long have you known something was wrong?" I asked.
"Two weeks.
He started being evasive.
Changing the story slightly every time.
I started writing things down." She reached into her bag and placed a small notebook on the table.
"I have dates.
Times.
Things he told me that don't match each other."
I looked at the notebook.
Then at her.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I have a daughter," she said.
"She's nine.
May you like
And I keep thinking about what I would want someone to do, if it were me sitting where you're sitting."
The front door opened.
