The Garage Held His Secrets

Six months into our marriage, my husband Adam declared our garage off-limits. He called it his "creative space," but it was my house, bought with my inheritance, and his sudden coldness felt like a violation.

Soon, the secrecy became a prison. He began handcuffing me to our bed at night, chaining me up like an animal so he could sneak down to his precious garage while I slept.

When I confronted him, he tracked my phone, punched me in the face, and threatened to take half my house in a divorce. He was a monster wearing my husband's face, and I was trapped with him.

One night, after picking the lock, I crept downstairs and heard voices. It was Adam and his fugitive brother-a man who had killed an entire family in a hit-and-run. I heard his brother threaten to "handle" me.

The next morning, I smiled and made my husband his favorite breakfast. But as I served him his pancakes, I added a special ingredient-a powerful laxative, enough to send him straight to the emergency room. He thought he had me cornered. He had no idea I was about to burn his entire world to the ground.

Chapter 1

Alison Moody POV:

The first time my husband, Adam, told me I wasn' t allowed in our garage, I laughed. The second time, he wasn' t smiling.

"I' m serious, Alison," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with an unfamiliar hardness. He stood in the doorway connecting the kitchen to the garage, his body physically blocking my path. "It' s my studio now. My creative space. I can' t have you coming in and out, disrupting the flow."

Rage, hot and immediate, flared in my chest. I took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of fresh paint and sawdust from the other side of the door mocking me. This wasn' t just a garage. It was part of my house. The house I bought with the inheritance my grandmother left me, every last penny of it. I remembered her telling me, her voice thin as old paper, "Buy yourself a foundation, darling. A place that' s yours, no matter what."

And I had. This two-story suburban home with its manicured lawn was my foundation.

"Adam, be reasonable," I said, keeping my tone even, a skill I' d perfected as a financial analyst dealing with volatile clients. "I just need to grab the gardening shears."

"No."

The word was a slap. He didn' t raise his voice, but the finality of it was more shocking than a shout. My mouth fell open slightly. This wasn' t the charismatic, free-spirited musician I' d married six months ago. The man who had wooed me with sidewalk serenades and promises of a life filled with art and passion. This was a stranger wearing my husband' s face.

"What do you mean, 'no' ?" I asked, my voice rising despite my best efforts.

"I mean, the studio is off-limits. I' ll get you the shears later. When I' m done." He made a move to close the door.

I put my hand out, pressing it flat against the cool wood. "Later? When will that be? You' ve been in there since dawn."

His eyes, the same warm brown eyes that used to look at me like I was a miracle, turned cold. "Don' t push me, Alison. You have the whole damn house. Can' t I have one fucking room for myself?"

The curse landed like a punch to my gut. He never swore at me. Ever. A knot of ice formed in my stomach, chilling the earlier fire of my anger. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

I tried to quell the roaring fire in my gut, the one screaming that this was an unacceptable violation. My pragmatic mind took over, analyzing the situation. A direct confrontation had failed. Escalation would likely lead to a bigger fight, one that felt unsettlingly unpredictable right now. I needed information, not a shouting match.

"Adam," I began again, my voice softer this time, a deliberate choice. "Talk to me. What' s going on? You' ve been so secretive lately. This isn' t like you."

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders slumping just a fraction. It was a calculated move, a performance of weariness. "Look, baby, I' m sorry I snapped. It' s just... I' m on the verge of something big. A whole new sound. It' s delicate. I can' t have any outside energy interfering. You get that, don' t you? You, of all people, know how important this is to me."

He was gaslighting me, using my past support for his artistic ambitions as a weapon against me now. The urge to call him out on it was immense, but I held my tongue.

"I do get it," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "I just want to understand. Why the sudden lockdown? It' s my house too, Adam. I have a right to know why a part of it is suddenly forbidden territory."

His gaze flickered away for a second, a micro-expression of something I couldn't quite read. Guilt? Fear?

"It' s not forbidden," he said, his tone placating. "It' s just... under construction. Creatively. The equipment is sensitive. The acoustics have to be perfect. Once it' s all set up, I' ll give you the grand tour. I promise."

He was still physically blocking the doorway, his arm braced against the frame. A casual posture that was anything but. He was a barrier, a human wall in my own home.

"So you' re saying I' m never allowed in there again?" I pressed, needing to hear him say it again, needing to confirm the absurdity of the situation.

"I' m saying you need to trust me," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, persuasive tone he used when he was trying to win an argument he knew he was losing. "The big reveal will be worth it. Just give me some time, Ali. A few more weeks."

A cold dread washed over me, a gut feeling that this had nothing to do with music. Weeks? For what? To set up some speakers and a mixing board? I' d helped him move his old equipment in myself. It took a day.

I remembered the way he had dismissed my concerns earlier with that cruel, dismissive curse. "You have the whole damn house." As if he were a generous landlord and I was a tenant on his good graces.

He tried to soften his stance, seeing the storm gathering in my eyes. "Look, what I said before... I didn' t mean it like that. You know I don' t. Sometimes the words come out wrong when the music is so loud in my head."

I almost scoffed. The passionate, misunderstood artist. It was a role he played well, but the costume was starting to fray at the edges.

I wouldn' t find any answers by pushing him like this. He would only build his walls higher. I had to find another way in.

That night, sleep was a distant country I couldn' t reach. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the sheets, sent a jolt of anxiety through me. The silence from Adam' s side of the bed was just as loud. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. He was as awake as I was.

I thought back to when we first met. He was playing his guitar on a street corner, his voice raw and full of a beautiful ache. I, the pragmatic financial analyst who mapped out her life in spreadsheets, was completely captivated. He told me I was his muse, that my steady, logical mind grounded his chaotic creativity. He said he admired my independence, my success, the fact that I had built a life for myself. He made me feel seen, not for the money I inherited, but for the person I was.

Or so I thought.

Now, lying in the dark, a sickening question slithered into my mind. Had he seen me, or had he seen my house? My financial stability? A secure, unsuspecting place to... what?

Another question followed close behind. Why hadn' t he touched me? In the six months we' d been married, we' d been intimate less than a dozen times. He always had an excuse. He was too deep in a melody, his mind was elsewhere, he wasn' t feeling well. He' d kiss my forehead, whisper "I love you, my muse," and roll over, leaving a cold chasm between us in the king-sized bed.

A wave of desperate longing washed over me. I needed to feel connected to him, to the man I thought I married. I shifted, moving closer, and rested my hand on his chest.

His entire body went rigid, as if I' d shocked him with a cattle prod. He flinched away from my touch so violently that he nearly rolled off the bed.

"Adam?" I whispered, my hand frozen in the air where his heart had been.

He sat up, breathing heavily, his back to me. "Don' t. Please, Alison. Just... don' t."

The rejection was absolute. It wasn' t just a lack of desire; it was a visceral repulsion. And in that moment, in the sterile glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds, a horrifying realization hit me.

It wasn' t that he couldn' t touch me. It was that he didn' t want to. He didn' t want me at all.

"Why?" The word was a raw, broken sound. "Why did you marry me, Adam? If you can' t even stand for me to touch you, why did you pursue me? Why did you beg me to be your wife?"

I remembered his claims of having some vague psychological block, a promise whispered in the dark that it would get better once he felt more secure, once his music took off. It was all bullshit.

"I told you," he mumbled, his voice strained. "I have issues. I' m working on them. It' ll get better. I promise."

He reached for the water glass on his nightstand and took a long drink, his hand shaking slightly. He didn' t turn to face me. He didn' t use his hand to comfort me. He used an object, a buffer.

It was more than rejection. It was a statement. I felt contaminated, as if my touch was something to be washed away.

I said nothing. There was nothing left to say. I rolled onto my side, facing the window, my back to him, a mirror of his own posture. I thought of all I had done for him. I paid all the bills so he could focus on his "art." I bought him a new guitar for our one-month anniversary. I' d defended his lack of a steady job to my concerned friends and family, telling them to believe in his talent the way I did.

I had invested everything into this marriage-my home, my money, my heart. And in return, I was given a locked door and a husband who recoiled from my touch.

All of it-the secrecy, the emotional distance, the lies-it all radiated from one place.

The garage.

Whatever was in that garage was more important to him than his wife. More important than our marriage. And I was going to find out what it was.