I Found Protective Pills And A Second Phone In My Wife’s Suitcase Before Her “Trip With Friends...

I Found Protective Pills And A Second Phone In My Wife’s Suitcase Before Her “Trip With Friends...
The rain pounded against our bedroom window like an angry fist, relentless and unyielding. I lay there in the dark, my chest tight, listening to Kara methodically packing for her weekend getaway. Three in the morning, and she moved with the precision of a surgeon—folding, stacking, zipping, as if each piece of clothing were a piece of evidence in some silent investigation. That should have been my first clue.

“Can’t sleep again?” she whispered without looking up from her suitcase, her voice low, almost teasing.

“Storm’s keeping me up,” I lied. Truth was, I had been watching her for the past twenty minutes, noting every deliberate movement. Designer jeans she never wore around me, that red silk blouse I had bought for her birthday last year—the one she swore made her look fat—folded neatly into her bag. Even the soft click of the suitcase wheels against the wooden floor sounded calculated.

My name is Cole Merrick, and I fix boats for a living. Thirty-eight years old, hands permanently stained with engine grease, and married to a woman whose world revolves around public relations for the biggest marketing firm on the coast of Maine. We live in a house my grandfather built, creaking floorboards and stubborn doors, perched on the cliffs overlooking Penobscot Bay. I used to think love meant trust, that marriage meant partnership. Tonight, I wonder if it also means being blind.

“This spa weekend is exactly what I need,” Kara said, pulling out a pair of carefully stacked towels. “Tina’s been planning it for months.”

I grunted something that might have passed for agreement. Tina was her work friend—the type of person who meticulously plans everyone else’s life while hers is in a constant state of chaos. But something about this whole setup felt off. Like a boat that looks seaworthy on the surface but is quietly taking on water beneath.

“Which spa again?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

“Ocean Breeze Resort. Up in Bar Harbor,” she answered without hesitation, not looking at me. Either she was telling the truth, or she had rehearsed this conversation to perfection.

I rolled over, pretending to drift back to sleep, but kept one eye open. Every movement she made, every breath she drew, felt like a secret she was daring me to uncover. She lifted her suitcase, testing its weight, and I heard the sharp intake of breath—too heavy for a weekend of massages, cucumber water, and silent contemplation.

Then I noticed something else. The birth control pills were gone from the medicine cabinet. Three years she had taken those pills religiously, ever since we decided to wait on children until my boat repair business stabilized. Why would she need them for a weekend spa? My stomach churned.

The front door clicked and slammed behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent house. I waited ten minutes, then crept downstairs to check the kitchen. Her charger for her phone—usually left exactly where it belonged—was missing.

Kara owned one phone. A cracked iPhone she constantly complained about but never replaced. Why would she need a charger for a fully charged phone? Unless… she had a second one.

I made coffee, hands shaking slightly, and sat at the kitchen table staring out at the storm. Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the bay and the masts of the sailboats rocking in the harbor. My grandfather used to say storms reveal the true character of both ships and people: strong ones weather the tempest; weak ones break apart. Tonight, I felt the weight of his words. I realized my marriage might be like one of those fragile boats—built with care, but vulnerable to the secrets and tempests I could no longer ignore.


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