— Ben
I stared at the blocky handwriting. It was practical and efficient. He had come into my house, witnessed my humiliation, cleaned up my mess, and locked the door on his way out.
I set the note down. The house felt different in the daylight. Less like a tomb, more like a museum. Everything in its place, all surfaces gleaming.
I walked to the sink and filled a glass with water, drinking it down in one long, desperate gulp. The cold water hit my empty stomach like a stone.
Lucia.
The name was there before the water even settled.
Lucia Vance.
Last night, she’d been nothing more than a ghost. A voice on the phone. Today, she was a name. More than that, she was a woman; one my husband had driven toward on the night he died.
I needed to find her.
The need wasn't rational. It was an itch under my skin. Ben had given me the outline—the affair, the timeline, the maybe—but outlines weren't enough.
I needed to see her face and hear her voice. I needed to know what she had that I didn't.
I turned to the counter, where Ryan's phone still sat. The cracked screen was cold. I unlocked it, my thumb moving automatically over the code, and opened the recent calls.
The unknown number was at the top. There were two missed calls and one voicemail.
I stared at the digits. I could call her. Demand answers. Or maybe I could scream at her.
The phone buzzed in my hand.
I jumped, nearly dropping it.
The screen lit up with an incoming call, the same numbers from before dancing in front of my eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs. She was calling back. She hadn't given up.
I stared at the green icon. The buzzing vibrated through my fingers, up my arm.
Last night, I had hung up, but last night I’d been a coward.
But that was last night. And I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life wondering who was on the other end of this line.
I pressed the icon and brought the phone to my ear.
I didn't say anything. I just breathed, listening to the silence on the other end.
"Ryan?"
The voice was the same. Equal parts soft and terrified.
"He's not here," I said. My voice was raspy, unfamiliar to my own ears.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
"Who is this?" she asked. Her voice hardened, the fear sharpening into suspicion.
I looked at the clean kitchen, and then at the wedding ring on the counter.
"This is his wife," I said.
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute.
