I pulled into the gravel driveway at fifteen minutes past two.
Matthew’s gray sedan was parked near the garage, the hood still ticking as the engine cooled.
He was supposed to be at the regional school board meeting in Bloomington until five.
I turned the ignition off and sat in the quiet of the car, looking at his back bumper.
The gold watch in my bag felt suddenly heavy, like a secret I had stolen rather than a gift I had bought.
I got out of the car, closed the door quietly, and walked up the three wooden steps to our front porch.
The key turned in the lock without a sound.
I stepped into the hallway, the smell of lavender wax and old floorboards wrapping around me.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with its slow, heavy rhythm.
From the living room, Matthew’s voice rose, clear and surprisingly loud.
“No, we have to keep the dates exactly as they are,” Matthew said.
I froze in the doorway, my boots still on the rug.
“She has no reason to look at those files anyway,” Matthew said.
He paused, and I heard the low murmur of another voice through his phone speaker, too faint to understand.
“I know what I am doing,” Matthew said, his tone shifting into that calm, flat confidence he used when he was managing a difficult student.
I slid my fingers into my pocket, twisting my wedding ring until the metal dug into my skin.
“She walked straight into my trap back in high school,” Matthew said.
My hand stopped moving on my ring.
“She has no idea,” Matthew said, his voice dropping slightly.
I took one silent step closer to the doorframe, my shoulder touching the painted wood.
Through the crack in the door, I could see the back of Matthew’s head as he stood by the window.
