No hidden phones.
No suddenly changed passwords.
We shared calendars.
Budget alerts.
Streaming accounts.
Locations when traveling.
If a woman from his office sent him a message at midnight, he showed me before I had time to become curious.
Not because I demanded surveillance.
Because openness came naturally to us.
That transparency was one of the reasons I married him.
Our wedding had been perfect.
Felicia cried through her toast.
My cousins started a conga line nobody had authorized.
Callum stepped on the hem of my dress twice and looked genuinely devastated both times.
By the time we reached the suite, both of us were exhausted.
Our flight to Costa Rica was scheduled for that afternoon.
I got up first.
Packed the last toiletries.
Checked our passports.
Then decided to put Callum’s tuxedo into its garment bag so the hotel could arrange cleaning.
I had one rule about formal clothes.
Check every pocket.
Years earlier, I had sent a rental-car key through a dry cleaner and spent two miserable days fixing the problem.
“Pockets first.”
I muttered it out of habit.
Outer jacket pocket.
Empty.
Trouser pocket.
Mint.
Crumpled drink ticket.
Inside breast pocket.
My fingers touched something cold.
Small.
Metal.
I slowly pulled my hand out.
Then looked at my palm.
A tiny brass key.
A folded receipt.
And a square of cream-colored stationery.
I looked at Callum.
Still asleep.
Then back at the objects.
My heartbeat accelerated.
I grabbed my phone.
Quietly slipped out of the room.
And did not breathe normally again until the door clicked shut behind me.
I stood barefoot in the hotel corridor.
The carpet felt cold beneath my feet.
The brass key was tied to a narrow red ribbon that looked slightly worn.
I unfolded the cream paper.
The handwriting was feminine.
