I crept up the stairs, my hand sliding along the wooden banister. Every floorboard that groaned beneath my weight sounded like a gunshot in the dead silence of the morning. When I reached the master bedroom, the door was ajar.
Amanda was sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair. She was wearing her morning robe, her back turned to me.
“You’re home early,” she said smoothly, her eyes meeting mine in the reflection of the vanity mirror. She didn’t look startled. She didn’t look guilty.
“The meetings wrapped up ahead of schedule,” I said, stepping into the room. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jacket, my fingers curled around a small, heavy tactical knife I kept in my glove compartment. “I caught a 5 a.m. flight out of SeaTac.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said, setting her brush down. She turned around in her chair to face me. Her expression was a perfect mask of wifely affection, but as I looked closer, I noticed a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in her lower eyelid. “I missed you.”
“Did you?” I asked, taking a step closer. “Did you miss me, Amanda? Or did you miss the man who was here last night?”
The air in the room instantly curdled.
The affectionate warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by something cold, ancient, and calculating. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t ask how I knew. She simply leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest.
