By evening, I’d convinced myself there had to be an innocent explanation—maybe work or insomnia. But still, a small part of me whispered, “Then why the secrecy? And what was he really doing every night?”
When he picked up his laptop and said, “I’m turning in,” I smiled and said, “Goodnight,” just like always.
But I set my alarm for 2 a.m. and waited. I had to know the truth.
When it buzzed, I slid out of bed as quietly as I could.
The house was cold, and my bare feet stuck to the hardwood.
A thin strip of yellow light bled out from under the guest room door again. I leaned in close and heard the unmistakable sound of typing. I tried the doorknob, but the door was clearly locked.
Then I remembered something.
Three years ago, when we first moved into this house, I made copies of every key.
I always forget where I put things, so I hid the extras in a little tin box behind the cookbooks in the kitchen.
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