Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Clean Slate
The drive back to Baltimore took an hour and forty minutes because the rain had turned into a steady, gray curtain that slowed every truck on Route 95 down to forty miles an hour. I didn't turn on the radio. I didn't call Jenna. I just listened to the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers clearing away the water, over and over again, until my mind felt as smooth and gray as the asphalt under my tires.
When I pulled into the driveway of our brick colonial on Elm Street at nine o'clock that night, the house was dark except for the single yellow bulb over the side porch that Marcus always forgot to turn off. The hydrangeas by the front steps were heavy with rain, their blue heads beaten down into the mud by the storm.
I didn't turn on the overhead light when I walked into the hallway. I set the two silver gift bags down on the wooden bench by the front door—the same bench Marcus had built out of reclaimed oak planks during our third year of marriage when we still thought we were going to be people who built things together.
The bourbon was still inside its box. The Omega watch was still ticking softly against its suede cushion, measuring out hours that no longer belonged to anyone I knew.
I walked up the stairs in the dark, my hand sliding along the polished mahogany banister that I had dusted every Saturday morning for eleven years. The bedroom was cold because Marcus had turned the thermostat down to sixty-four before he left on Friday morning to save on the electric bill.
The closet smelled of his cedar hangers and the dry-cleaning plastic he never quite managed to throw away.
I didn't cry. Not then. Tears, I discovered, were like electricity; they needed a circuit, a reason, a connection to something living to flow. But the circuit had been cut cleanly at the root in Suite 914, leaving nothing behind but a dry, humming emptiness that felt suspiciously like peace.
On Monday morning, I didn't go into my studio. I sat at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee—the same brand Marcus liked, though I realized as I swallowed the first bitter sip that I had always hated the chicory aftertaste—and opened my laptop.
My phone rang at 8:15. The caller ID said Marcus Vance (Cell).
I let it ring through to voicemail. It rang four times, the little digital counter ticking upward like a gas meter, until it hit the beep.
“Sim,” his voice said, sounding smaller than it had in the hotel room, flat and digitized through the speaker. “Can we... please. Just talk. Jenna called me this morning asking why you’re not answering her calls either. She thinks something happened with the car. I didn't tell her... I didn't tell anyone, Sim. Can you just call me back? We need to figure out what we’re going to tell the bank.”
I reached out with my index finger and pressed the red circle on the screen that said Block Contact.
A small pop-up appeared: Are you sure you want to block Marcus Vance? You will no longer receive calls, messages, or FaceTime requests.
May you like
I clicked Block.
The screen went dark, reflecting my own face back at me in the fluorescent kitchen light—my hair still tied back in the same loose knot, my eyes dry, my skin pale and clean of any powder or rouge. I looked like a woman who had just finished a very long, very complicated inventory and decided to close the store.
