M.R. and C.R.

He swallowed.

“You said you couldn’t take his things down,” he murmured.

Claire closed her eyes for half a second.

That was the first crack.

I backed into the hallway.

Our house sat at the end of a quiet Ohio cul-de-sac—the kind where everyone knew which garage door belonged to which family, where the HOA sent warning emails about trash bins being visible from the street, and where an American flag hung from almost every porch in July.

It wasn’t the kind of place where a man expected to come home early from a work trip and find another man washing his hands in his bathroom.

But I’d learned long ago that betrayal doesn’t care what kind of neighborhood you live in.

The hallway light flickered once above us.

Claire walked out first, moving slowly, as if she still believed she could arrange the next few minutes into something harmless.

Evan followed her, keeping his distance now.