I wrote down those words in the notebook I kept in my glove compartment. It was one of those cheap spiral notebooks I used for mileage and delivery notes when my phone battery died. Below Sandra's instructions, I wrote: do not withdraw joint funds, do not leave house without advice, bring purchase records. Then I sat in the car until the lunch break was nearly over, watching other employees walk into the building carrying sandwiches and chatting about their afternoons. The world was continuing with an indifference I found both insulting and oddly reassuring.
When I got home that evening, Kate was already changed into comfortable clothes. She asked how my day had been, and I told her it had been busy. She'd bought ingredients for the meal she'd planned to cook over the weekend and pointed out that I'd forgotten to put one package of vegetables in the correct refrigerator drawer. I looked at her, wondering if this was a deliberate performance or if she truly believed that domestic normality could return by simple repetition. I told her I'd move the vegetables and went outside to take out the trash.
Diane, our next-door neighbor, was tending a flower bed near the sidewalk. She was a retired schoolteacher who maintained her yard with the discipline of someone expecting an inspection. She knew the collection schedule better than the city's website and had once brought us a hand-drawn diagram explaining why the recycling truck sometimes skipped our street. I liked Diane, though our conversations rarely lasted longer than a few minutes. Usually they involved weather, neighborhood repairs, or the way the roots from the large tree behind our fence kept spreading toward her vegetable garden.
She waved when she saw me and asked whether I'd had a good week. I gave her a noncommittal answer.
She mentioned that the car she'd seen parked near the fire hydrant several evenings lately hadn't caused a problem after all. "I wrote the plate down because I thought it might belong to that rental house farther along," she said. "But I noticed it was visiting your place sometimes. Maybe one of Kate's colleagues? I didn't want to make a fuss if it was somebody you knew."
My hand tightened around the trash bin handle. I asked what kind of car it was, trying to make the question sound casual. Diane described a dark sedan and said she'd first noticed it a few months earlier, usually on weekdays when my car wasn't home. She knew that much because my truck was familiar to her, and she often saw me leaving or arriving at the same times. I thanked her for checking about the hydrant and said I'd make sure visitors parked where they were allowed.
She went back to her flowers, apparently satisfied. I stood by the bins for another minute, trying to understand how a few words of innocent neighborhood conversation could make the image in my head so much sharper. The affair was no longer confined to an office or a hotel room