Chapter 2 - The Locked BedroomVanessa made it six steps.
I caught her before she reached the back hallway.
“Move.”
“Daniel, get out of my way.”
“Not happening.”
She tried to shoulder past me.
Four years earlier, I might have laughed.
Vanessa had always been dramatic. Impulsive. The kind of person who believed shouting was the same thing as winning.
But there was nothing funny about the panic on her face.
“Why are you running?”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re practically sprinting.”
“I need my phone.”
“It’s in your hand.”
She looked down.
That was the moment I knew.
Whatever had happened inside my house, Vanessa wasn’t merely embarrassed.
She was afraid of evidence.
Behind me, Grace whispered, “Daniel.”
I turned.
She had gone pale.
She was gripping the edge of the console table as though standing had become difficult.
I forgot Vanessa immediately.
I crossed the foyer and caught Grace around the waist.
“You’re sitting down.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
Mom stepped forward.
“She does this when she wants attention.”
My head snapped toward her.
Grace’s whole body tightened.
Mom saw my expression and stopped.
I carried Grace into the living room.
She protested weakly.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
But I didn’t put her down until we reached the couch.
Even then she perched on the edge instead of leaning back, hands folded in her lap like a guest waiting to be dismissed.
I knelt in front of her.
“What happened to your hair?”
Her fingers moved instinctively toward her head.
Vanessa laughed from the doorway.
“She cut it herself.”
Grace looked at her.
One glance.
But it contained enough fear to answer me.
I stood.
“Vanessa, leave the room.”
“This is my house too.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Mom folded her arms.
“You gave us permission to stay here.”
“I gave you permission to stay with Grace while I was overseas.”
“Well, exactly.”
“That did not make you owners.”
Mom’s expression tightened.
“You’re exhausted. You just traveled halfway around the world. We can talk tomorrow.”
“We’re talking now.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“And I don’t appreciate coming home to find my wife looking like she hasn’t had a full meal in six months.”
Grace whispered, “Please don’t fight.”
The sentence broke something in me.
The Grace I married did not fear arguments.
She once marched into a dealership and spent thirty minutes arguing with a manager because he had tried to charge an elderly couple for a repair they didn’t need.
She volunteered at an animal shelter.
She spoke at city council meetings.
She had proposed to me because, according to her, I was taking too long.
This woman was frightened of people raising their voices.
I sat beside her.
“Grace, I need you to tell me what happened.”
She stared at her hands.
“You’ll think I’m stupid.”
“No.”
“I believed them.”
“Believed what?”
“That you didn’t want me anymore.”
Mom sighed loudly.
“Daniel, she was emotionally unstable.”
I didn’t look away from Grace.
“What did they tell you?”
She took a shaky breath.
“The first year you were gone, everything was normal. We video-called almost every night.”
I remembered.
Then my contracts became more demanding.
Calls became harder.
Mom began messaging me saying Grace was tired, sick, busy, sleeping.
Grace supposedly sent short texts saying she loved me.
I had never questioned them.
“Then your mother said the company had restricted your communications.”
“That never happened.”
“I know that now.”
“She said what else?”
“That you were moving money into another account.”
I glanced toward Mom.
Her jaw tightened.
Grace continued.
“She showed me screenshots.”
“Of what?”
“Messages.”
My blood chilled.
“What messages?”
“From you.”
I took her hands.
“Grace, I never—”
“I know.”
Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
“But I didn’t know then.”
She described messages in which “I” complained about marriage.
Messages saying I felt trapped.
Messages saying I had met someone.
Eventually, one that said I did not want Grace contacting my employer because it could “damage my career.”
I felt physically sick.
“I never wrote any of that.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Grace looked toward the foyer camera.
“Because six months ago, Vanessa got drunk.”
Vanessa suddenly shouted, “Oh, come on!”
Grace flinched.
I stood.
“Get out.”
Vanessa scoffed.
“You seriously believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Without hearing our side?”
“I’ve spent five minutes hearing your side, and all I’ve heard are interruptions.”
Mom moved beside Vanessa.
“We have done nothing except support this woman.”
Grace gave a strange little laugh.
It was the first sound from her that reminded me of the woman I knew.
Except there was no humor in it.
“Support me?”
Mom stared at her.
Grace looked down again.
I touched her shoulder.
“What happened six months ago?”
“Vanessa came home drunk after some party. She left her laptop open.”
Vanessa’s face drained of color.
Grace continued.
“I saw your email account.”
“My email?”
“A copy.”
I frowned.
“She had a folder with your name.”
Mom stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
I pointed toward the hallway.
“Back up.”
“Daniel—”
“Back. Up.”
For once, my mother obeyed.
Grace whispered, “There were drafts. Messages. Screenshots. Photos.”
“What photos?”
“Pictures of you they had downloaded from your work pages and social accounts.”
I realized what she was describing.
A manufactured life.
They had built a fake version of me.
Enough photographs.
Enough fake messages.
Enough believable details.
And when the real me contacted Grace?
“They took your phone?” I asked.
Grace nodded.
“Eventually.”
“How?”
“Your mother said the phone contract was too expensive. She gave me another one.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Vanessa said, “She lost it.”
Grace looked at me.
“No.”
That one word was stronger.
“My sister smashed it.”
Vanessa went still.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I tried to call your office.”
My hands curled.
I forced them open.
I had learned overseas that anger was useful only when controlled.
I was not going to give Vanessa an excuse to turn this into a screaming match.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
Grace looked toward the staircase.
“Our room.”
Mom answered immediately.
“She has her bedroom.”
Grace’s mouth tightened.
I noticed it.
“Show me.”
She hesitated.
Then slowly stood.
I kept an arm around her as we climbed.
Our bedroom sat at the end of the upstairs hall.
I reached for the door.
Locked.
I looked at Grace.
“Key?”
She shook her head.
“Who has it?”
Silence.
Vanessa remained downstairs.
Mom had followed us halfway.
I turned.
“Mom?”
“It was necessary.”
My stomach dropped.
“What was necessary?”
“She kept going through things.”
“It’s her bedroom.”
“She was taking items that didn’t belong to her.”
Grace whispered, “My clothes.”
Mom ignored her.
I tried the handle again.
“Where does she sleep?”
Neither woman answered.
Then Grace pointed toward a narrow hallway near the laundry room.
There was a small door.
The storage room.
I walked toward it.
Inside sat a thin mattress.
No bed frame.
No dresser.
No curtains.
A plastic bottle of water.
Two folded gray shirts.
A blanket.
And on the floor beside the mattress was a small wooden box.
I recognized it.
I had given it to Grace on our wedding day.
Inside had been her grandmother’s necklace, our wedding photographs, and handwritten letters we exchanged during our first year together.
The box was empty.
“What happened to your things?”
Grace stared at my mother.
Mom looked away.
I turned slowly.
“Where is Grace’s wedding ring?”
Mom said nothing.
I looked back at Grace’s bare left hand.
For the first time since walking through the door, I realized it was missing.
Grace’s voice cracked.
“Vanessa sold it.”
From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.
Then a door slammed.
I ran.
By the time I reached the foyer, Vanessa was standing beneath the security camera with a brass fireplace poker in her hand.
The camera hung smashed from the wall.
She looked at me, breathing hard.
“You wanted evidence?”
She smiled.
“There isn’t any.”
I looked at the shattered camera.
Then at the tiny black wire disappearing behind the wall.
And I smiled back.
Vanessa’s expression faltered.
“You don’t know much about security systems, do you?”
Her smile disappeared.
May you like
Because cameras didn’t store footage inside the camera.
And whatever she had just tried to destroy was probably already saved somewhere else.
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