CHAPTER 2: The Canvas Jacket
Marcus’s large, rough hand—the same hand that had rested on my swollen stomach just hours earlier—cupped the sharp angle of Tommy’s jaw.
It was a motion so gentle, so deliberately tender, that it made my chest physically ache. Tommy leaned into the touch instantly, his eyes fluttering shut as if he had been waiting for that exact contact all night. The tension in Tommy’s shoulders melted, his entire body sinking deeper against my husband’s chest.
Then, Marcus tilted his head down.
The kiss was not a sudden, drunken mistake. It was not the clumsy, desperate collision of two men crossing a line for the first time. It was a slow, deep, anchoring kiss, born of absolute familiarity. The way their mouths met, the way Tommy’s hand slid from the nape of Marcus’s neck to grip the back of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer—it was a routine. It was a language they had spoken for a very long time.
They did not make a single sound. The soft jazz continued to pour from the small speaker on the mantle, covering the rhythm of their breathing. They knew exactly how to move, how to hold each other, how to kiss in the dark without waking the pregnant wife sleeping directly above them.
My lungs finally burned, demanding oxygen. I drew in a ragged, shallow breath through my nose, terrified that even the smallest gasp would echo down the staircase. The baby rolled heavily against my ribs, a sudden, sharp pressure that nearly made me double over. I clamped my hand over my mouth, biting down hard on my own knuckles to keep from making a sound.
Down in the firelight, Marcus finally pulled back, just an inch. He kept his forehead pressed against Tommy’s. Tommy whispered something, his lips brushing against Marcus’s mouth, but the words were completely lost to the music and the crackle of the dying fire. Marcus nodded once, his eyes still closed, and pulled Tommy back into his chest, burying his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck once again.
I could not watch anymore. My brain was fracturing, every memory of our five-year relationship shattering and rearranging itself into a terrifying new picture.
I took a step backward. The floorboard groaned under the carpet.
Downstairs, Marcus’s head snapped up.
I did not wait to see if he looked toward the stairs. I moved faster than I had in months, my bare feet practically flying over the hallway rug. I slipped back into our bedroom, closing the door just enough to leave the familiar two-inch crack, and threw myself into the bed.
My heart was hammering so violently against my ribs I thought it might genuinely hurt the baby. I pulled the heavy comforter up to my chin, turning on my side and squeezing my eyes shut. I focused entirely on my breathing, forcing my chest to rise and fall in the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The jazz music stopped.
Finally, I heard the heavy, familiar thud of Marcus’s boots coming up the stairs.
He walked into the bedroom. The floorboards creaked under his massive frame. He did not turn on the lamp. I heard the rustle of his clothes as he undressed, the dull thud of his jeans hitting the laundry hamper. The mattress dipped heavily behind me as he climbed into bed.
He slid across the sheets, wrapping his thick arm around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
It took everything in my power not to violently flinch.
As he pressed his face into my hair, the scent hit me. It was not just the familiar smell of motor oil and sawdust that Marcus always carried. Beneath it was the sharp, clean scent of cedar and bergamot.
It was Tommy’s cologne.
"You awake, Em?" Marcus whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against my ear.
I kept my breathing perfectly even. I did not move a muscle. After a long minute, his grip on my waist loosened slightly, and his breathing leveled out into a heavy snore.
I did not sleep for a single second of the rest of that night. I lay there in the dark, trapped in the suffocating warmth of his arms, staring at the digital clock on the nightstand as the red numbers slowly ticked toward sunrise.
By seven in the morning, the gray autumn light began to bleed through the blinds. Marcus groaned, shifting his weight, and finally let go of me to roll out of bed. I waited until I heard the shower running in the master bathroom before I finally sat up. My entire body felt bruised, my joints stiff from holding myself rigid for five hours.
I walked downstairs, dreading every step. I expected the house to feel different, to look like a crime scene, but everything was agonizingly normal.
When I reached the kitchen, the smell of bacon grease and dark roast coffee filled the air. Tommy was standing at the stove, using a wooden spatula to scramble eggs in our cast-iron skillet. He was wearing the same gray t-shirt from the night before, his dark hair slightly messy.
"Morning, mama," Tommy said, flashing me that familiar, easy smile that had charmed my entire family at our wedding. "You look exhausted. Baby keeping you up?"
I stared at him. I looked at his mouth, the same mouth I had watched my husband kissing in the dark. A wave of profound, acidic nausea hit the back of my throat.
"Yeah," I managed to say, my voice raspy. "Rough night. Couldn't get comfortable."
"Sit down," Tommy said, pulling out a stool at the kitchen island. "I’m making you a plate. You need the protein."
Marcus walked into the kitchen a minute later, his hair damp from the shower, smelling of his usual generic soap. He walked right past me, dropping a kiss on the top of my head, and went straight to the coffee pot.
"Thanks for cooking, man," Marcus said to Tommy, pouring a mug.
"Don't mention it," Tommy replied, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon across the island toward me. "I was up anyway."
I sat at the island, staring at the plate. I could not eat. But as I watched them, my eyes suddenly open to the reality of my own life, I saw it. I saw the invisible, iron-clad thread connecting them.
When Tommy reached past Marcus to grab the salt shaker, he didn't say excuse me. His chest brushed lightly against Marcus’s back, and Marcus didn't step away. He leaned into it, just for a fraction of a second, before turning to open the refrigerator. When Marcus poured a second cup of coffee, he handed it to Tommy without asking, already knowing exactly how much cream to leave room for.
They were not just best friends. They moved around this kitchen with the seamless, choreographed grace of two people who had been married for a decade. I was the ghost haunting their house.
I forced down a few bites of eggs, claiming I was feeling a little morning sickness, and retreated to the living room couch.
At eight-thirty, they finally left. Marcus knelt beside the couch, pressing his hand to my stomach and kissing my cheek. His lips felt like absolute ice against my skin. "I'll be at the shop until six," he said. "Call me if you need anything."
Tommy waved from the front door. "See ya, Em. Take care of my nephew."
The front door clicked shut. I heard Marcus’s heavy diesel truck roar to life, followed by the familiar hum of Tommy’s sedan pulling out of the driveway.
The house fell completely silent.
I stood up from the couch. The nausea was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp adrenaline. I could not live the next two months of my pregnancy waiting for the other shoe to drop. I needed to know exactly what I was up against. I needed proof.
I went upstairs to the guest bedroom first.
The door was pushed open. I stepped inside. The bed was perfectly, tightly made. The decorative pillows I had arranged two days ago were still in the exact same positions. Tommy had not slept in this bed. I checked the small trash can in the corner—empty. I checked the closet—empty.
I walked down the hall to the laundry room. Marcus had tossed his jeans in the hamper, but he had left his heavy brown canvas Carhartt work jacket hanging on the hook by the back door in the mudroom. It was the jacket he wore every single day to the shop, the one that smelled permanently of exhaust and cold wind.
I walked into the mudroom. The jacket was heavy, the canvas stiff and worn at the elbows. I reached into the left front pocket. Nothing but a few stray bolts and a crumpled receipt from an auto parts store. I reached into the right pocket. A heavy set of spare keys on a metal ring.
Then, I unzipped the front of the jacket and reached into the deep interior breast pocket.
My fingers brushed against something thick and smooth.
I pulled it out.
It was a heavy, 9×12 manila envelope, folded completely in half to fit inside the pocket. It was not sealed. The edges were worn and slightly frayed, like it had been taken out and shoved back in multiple times.
I carried the envelope back to the kitchen island, smoothing it flat against the granite counter. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely pinch the metal clasp to open it.
I slid the stack of papers out.
The cover page was printed on heavy, official stock. At the top, in bold black letters, it read: SETTLEMENT STATEMENT – FINAL DISCLOSURE.
It was a closing document from a real estate title company.
I scanned down the page, my eyes frantically searching the dense legal text.
Property Address: 412 Ridge Road, Blackwood, Oregon.
Blackwood was a small, isolated mountain town nearly four hundred miles north of us. Marcus had gone hunting near Blackwood three times in the last year. He had told me there was no cell service up there.
I kept reading.
Purchaser(s): Marcus David Vance and Thomas James Miller.
They had bought a house. A property four hundred miles away. And they had closed on it together.
The air in the kitchen suddenly felt too thin to breathe. I flipped to the second page, looking at the financial breakdown. It was a cash purchase. Over two hundred thousand dollars, paid in full. I knew exactly where that money came from—it was the massive inheritance Marcus had received from his grandfather two years ago, the money he promised me we were saving for the baby’s college fund.
I flipped to the signature page. Both of their names were signed in thick blue ink.
The date next to the notary stamp made my stomach drop.
Date of Closing: October 24th.
That was yesterday.
He had not been lifting an engine block yesterday afternoon. He and Tommy had been at a notary, signing the final paperwork for a life that did not include me.
My vision blurred, hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and dripping onto the kitchen counter. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, trying to steady my breathing. I went to put the papers back into the envelope, desperate to hide the evidence before I decided what to do next.
But as I slid the stack back in, a single, standard-sized piece of printer paper slipped out from between the heavy legal pages and fluttered to the floor.
I bent down heavily, gripping the edge of the island for support, and picked it up.
It was an email thread, printed directly from Marcus’s shop computer. The top email was from Tommy, sent three days ago.
May you like
I read the two lines of text. The blood instantly drained from my face, leaving me freezing cold.
The contractor finished the nursery at the Blackwood house today, Tommy had written. The crib is set up. You need to tell her the plan by Friday. We can't move the baby later.
