Chapter 3

The truce was fragile.

Olivia was overly affectionate, constantly trying to make up for the "misunderstanding."

But little things started to bother me, things that didn't add up.

I noticed her toiletries in the bathroom.

Among her usual expensive, organic soaps and lotions, there was a cheap, generic brand of body wash.

The kind you find in a discount store, or maybe a motel.

Olivia was meticulous about what she put on her skin.

She'd once thrown out a whole bottle of gifted lotion because it had parabens.

"Oh, that," she said when I asked, waving her hand dismissively. "The retreat place had run out of their usual stuff. It's terrible, I know."

It sounded plausible, but it felt off.

Then came our anniversary.

We had reservations at Canlis, a place we'd saved up for, a place I' d booked months in advance.

I came home from work, a small gift in my bag, expecting her to be getting ready.

She was on the couch, watching TV, still in her casual clothes.

"Ready for dinner?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

She looked up, a blank expression on her face.

"Dinner? Oh, Ethan, I completely forgot! The Peterson case has been so draining."

She meant Mrs. Peterson. She' d started referring to her care as a "case."

Forgot? Our anniversary? Canlis?

My disappointment must have shown on my face.

The next day, an extravagant gift arrived for me. A new high-end laptop, top of the line.

"Happy Anniversary, darling," she said, beaming. "I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you."

It was beautiful, expensive.

Far too expensive.

I knew our finances. We couldn't afford this, not without dipping into savings we'd earmarked for a down payment on a house.

"Olivia, this is... too much," I said.

"Nonsense," she replied, kissing me. "You deserve it. Don't worry about the money."

But I did worry. Where did the money come from?

A few nights later, she insisted on cooking me a special dinner.

"To really make up for everything," she said.

She made a cioppino, a seafood stew. It smelled amazing.

She served me a large bowl. I took a bite.

Cilantro.

A lot of cilantro.

I hate cilantro. It tastes like soap to me. More than that, I have a mild sensitivity to it. It makes my mouth tingle unpleasantly, sometimes gives me a headache.

Olivia knew this.

She'd known it for years. She always made sure to leave it out of my food, or pick it out if we were eating somewhere.

I looked at her. She was watching me, a bright, expectant smile on her face.

"How is it?" she asked.

I pushed the bowl away. "Olivia, it's full of cilantro."

Her smile faltered. "Oh. Oh, my gosh, Ethan, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. My mind has been all over the place."

She looked genuinely distressed.

But it was another crack in the facade.

The cheap body wash. The forgotten anniversary. The extravagant gift. The cilantro.

Small things, perhaps.

Easy to explain away, one by one.

But together, they formed a pattern of carelessness, of disconnect.

My unease grew, a cold knot in my stomach.

This wasn't just about Mrs. Peterson anymore.

Something was seriously wrong with my marriage.