Chapter 6 - The Empty House
At 1:55 p.m., I pulled my car onto Elmridge Court.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The street was quiet. Tessa’s silver sedan was gone from her driveway three doors down. Caleb’s blue SUV was absent from our garage.
I parked along the curb, left the engine idling, and checked my watch. 1:58 p.m.
Caleb was currently sitting in the fifth-floor boardroom of his corporate headquarters, presenting quarterly logistics metrics to his regional directors. He wouldn't be able to look at his phone for at least another hour and a half.
I stepped out of the car, pulled a pair of large canvas duffel bags from the trunk, and unlocked the front door.
Stepping into the house felt like entering a tomb.
The air was heavy, still, and cold. The blinds were drawn, casting dim grey light across the entryway.
I walked straight into the living room.
The couch had been cleaned up. The two wineglasses were gone from the coffee table. Tessa’s shoes were gone from the fireplace hearth. The charcoal sectional cushions had been plumped up and smoothed out, as if trying to erase any physical evidence of what had occurred twelve hours prior.
And sitting neatly folded on the back of the armchair... was the gray wool blanket.
Caleb had washed it. I could smell the synthetic lavender scent of our laundry detergent from five feet away. He had washed away her perfume, washed away the late-night sweat, trying to sanitize the crime scene before I returned.
A cold surge of quiet fury burned through me. I grabbed the gray blanket, folded it tightly, and shoved it deep into the bottom of my first duffel bag.
Next, I went upstairs to the master bedroom.
I opened my closet. Moving with calm, systematic speed, I pulled down my winter coats, my work suits, my favorite dresses, and my shoe racks. I opened my jewelry box, taking my mother’s pearl necklace, my grandmother’s vintage ring, and my personal passport.
Then, I opened Caleb's nightstand drawer.
I wasn't looking for love letters. I was looking for financial records.
Tucked underneath a stack of unread paperback novels at the back of the drawer was a small black leather notebook.
I opened it.
It contained handwritten notes, dates, and password hints for various accounts. But what caught my eye was a folded slip of paper tucked into the back sleeve.
It was a printed receipt from a local self-storage facility on the east side of town—Unit 412, Gateway Storage.
The monthly rental fee was $185, paid in cash every month on the 1st. The lease was under Caleb’s name, registered eight months ago.
My blood ran cold.
He didn't just have late-night phone calls and casual lunches. He had a secondary storage location.
What was he hiding in Unit 412? Extra furniture? Old records? Or was he slowly siphoning away shared household items, preparation for an exit strategy he had been planning long before I caught him on the couch?
Suddenly, I heard the sound of heavy tires crunching over the gravel in the driveway.
My heart slammed into my throat.
I ran to the front bedroom window and pulled back the sheer curtain a fraction of an inch.
Caleb’s SUV was parked right behind my car.
He hadn't stayed at his executive meeting. He had left early.
I looked at my watch. 2:18 p.m.
The heavy click of the front door opening echoed through the quiet house below.
"Claire?" Caleb's voice boomed through the foyer, thick with anxiety, urgency, and manufactured desperation. "Claire! Is that your car outside? Claire, please!"
I shoved the black leather notebook into my leather tote bag, zipped up both duffel bags, and stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the entry hall.
May you like
Caleb was standing at the base of the staircase. He looked disheveled. His tie was loosened, his top shirt button was undone, and his hair was uncharacteristically messy.
When he looked up and saw me standing there with two heavy bags in my hands, his face went deathly pale.
