By early afternoon, I stopped pretending I was being productive.
I told my manager I had to leave, grabbed my keys, and drove to the nearest grocery store, convincing myself that if I couldn’t be there earlier, at least I could do something small now. I bought rice flakes, peanuts, ginger, and fresh herbs. When Hannah felt sick, she loved warm, simple food that reminded her of comfort rather than medicine. I imagined placing a bowl beside her bed, teasing her gently for worrying me, maybe insisting we go to urgent care together if she still looked pale.
That image kept me calm—right up until I reached our apartment building.
The front door wasn’t fully closed.
It was only open by a few inches, barely noticeable, but enough to send a jolt of cold through my veins. Hannah was careful, almost obsessively so. She always locked the door. Always.
I pushed it open slowly, my heart beating louder with each step inside.
“Hannah?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.
No answer.
The apartment felt wrong. Not empty, but tense, as if it was holding its breath. Then I heard it—a steady rush of water echoing down the hallway, followed by something that made my stomach drop completely.
A man’s laugh.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Heat flooded my chest. My thoughts raced, uninvited and cruel, assembling a story I had never imagined I’d be capable of believing. Hannah in the bathroom. Another man. The message about being sick suddenly felt deceptive. My pulse roared in my ears.
