Chapter 13 - The Husband I Buried

Now

The house felt different at night.

I was more aware of every sound.

I locked the front door behind me and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, trying to see outside, into the darkness. The click of the lock echoed through the hallway, sharper than it should have been, like the house was listening out for it.

I hadn’t turned on all the lights. I never did anymore. I told myself it was practical. Economical. There was no sense in lighting rooms I wasn’t using – but the truth was I didn’t want to see the whole place at once. Empty rooms carried weight, and shining a light on what wasn’t there only made the house seem emptier. Darkness softened the edges.

I set my bag down on the kitchen counter and glanced at the window.

The casement latch had been fixed. New hardware. It was more secure now than it ever had been. The repairman had smiled too easily when he told me it would hold, like confidence was something you could install with a screwdriver.

I checked it anyway.

Locked.

I ran my fingers along the sill, half expecting to feel splintered paint again. Nothing. The paint was smooth. Clean. Reassuring in a way that didn’t quite reassure.

The house creaked as I moved through it, settling into itself. I told myself it was normal. Old timber groaned. Especially with temperature changes. The rational explanations came easily when I needed them.

I changed into pajamas and padded back into the living room, leaving the lamp off. Moonlight spilled in through the windows instead, pale and distorting, stretching the shadows out too long.

I sat on the couch and stared at the dark screen of my phone.

I messaged Jess to say goodnight.

Something ticked softly near the ceiling – pipes, probably. Or the heating system adjusting. I counted the seconds between the sounds, just to prove to myself that they were regular.

They weren’t.

I stood and walked toward the back of the house, my footsteps careful, deliberate. The pool was visible through the glass doors, the water a dark, glassy sheet reflecting the night sky. The cover was off again. I didn’t remember removing it.

I hadn’t been swimming in days, but I convinced myself I must have forgotten about it. That it had probably been like that since my last swim.

Luis used to take care of the pool. He loved to swim and had the body to prove it. It would irritate him if I forgot to put the cover on. He said it was an invitation for debris, that the filter would shit itself if I kept doing it.

I slid the door open just enough to let the night air in. Cool. Damp. It smelled like wet leaves and chlorine and something faintly metallic. I leaned against the frame, listening.

Nothing.

I slipped out and pulled the cover across the surface before heading back inside.

And then—

A sound from upstairs.

Not footsteps. Not even a voice. Just . . . movement. A soft shift, like weight redistributing.

My pulse quickened, but my mind raced ahead of it, assembling explanations.

It was an old house. I’d stood in courtrooms full of people trying to make coincidence mean something more than it was.

Still, I didn’t move.

‘Hello?’ I called, my voice thinner than I wanted.

There was no answer.

I climbed the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. The hallway at the top was dark, the bedrooms closed off like sealed compartments. I flipped on the light, the sudden brightness making my eyes sting.

Everything was where it should be.

I checked the spare room. The office. The bathroom. My bedroom last.

The bed was untouched. Smooth.

I stood there, breathing in the quiet.

For a moment – just a moment – I imagined Luis standing behind me. Not as a ghost. Not as something impossible. Just . . . present. Solid. Familiar. I could almost hear his voice.

You’re overthinking it.

He’d said that to me more times than I could count. Usually gently. Sometimes not.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms into the mattress, grounding myself. This was my house. My life. I was allowed to feel safe in it.

But safety, I was learning, was an illusion. A story we told ourselves so we could fall asleep at night.

As I turned off the light and headed back downstairs, something caught my eye.

The back door.

The lock was engaged, but out beyond the deck, the cover had blown off the pool again, exposing the cool water beneath.

There was no pretending I hadn’t covered it over this time.

I stared at it, watching. Waiting.

But nothing happened. It was a still night, without a breeze.

I locked my bedroom door and slept with my phone underneath my pillow.