Chapter 8: The Performance Continues
Cameron arrived at 9:48. He carried a faint scent of soap that was not the kind we kept at home. Not strong. Simply different.
He took off his jacket, kissed the top of my head, and spoke about the deadline as if the entire evening had revolved around PowerPoint slides and email chains. I listened at the exact level required to avoid suspicion. I asked one question about the project’s progress. He answered smoothly. I nodded. I did not dig.
While he showered I opened the shared desk drawer and took out the small notebook I normally used for work. I added to the morning’s list:
– 9:17: left the office, did not drive home
– 9:31: arrived at the corporate apartment building
– 9:45: woman left, license plate recorded
– Soap scent not from our house
I wrote no interpretations. Only what my eyes had seen and my nose had registered.
May you like
When Cameron came out of the bathroom with damp hair, he asked if I was all right because I looked tired. I told him work had been heavy. He believed it. Or he chose to believe it. The difference no longer mattered.
That night I lay beside him and listened to the steady breathing of the man I had been married to for nine years. I did not cry. I did not shake. I only measured the distance between the words he had spoken and the things I had witnessed in the previous twelve hours. That distance was no longer doubt. It had become a record.
