I bide my time. On the sixth night, I crush up one of my sleeping pills while I’m heating the soup on the stove. Seth is trying to find us something to watch on TV, since we’ve already worked our way through two seasons of some mindless reality show.

I ladle out the soup and stir the powder into his bowl of minestrone, then add hot sauce—just the way he likes it. We make it through one episode of Friends before he nods off on the couch, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back as he snores. I say his name—“Seth...” and then, “Seth...?” a little louder. When he doesn’t respond after a hard poke on the arm, I stand up carefully, my heart pounding. The carpet cushions my steps but still they sound like an elephant stampede. What would he do if he caught me? I’ve never gone through his phone before. There were no set rules about privacy other than in regard to the wives. I just never looked through his things and he never looked though mine. That is, until he went through it to delete Hannah’s texts. It is a new age in our marriage.

His phone sits facedown on the coffee table. I try to remember if that is normal, if he’s done this before. But no—his phone is always faceup, open and willingly exposed. A friend in college once told me about her cheating boyfriend, who she caught always putting his phone facedown. I should have known, she’d said. That’s such a clear indicator. But Seth isn’t exactly cheating, is he? He doesn’t want me to see their names pop up on his screen. He’s busy trying to convince me that they don’t exist. I reach for his phone, never taking my eyes from his face. There is a commercial on TV about a woman with crocodile skin, when she uses their lotion she becomes magically smooth. She runs her fingers across her arm and smiles at me convincingly as I type in Seth’s password.

His password has always been the same thing since we met, something horribly predictable I’d seen him type into his phone a hundred times. I’m surprised when his screen lights up and I’m given access to his home screen. Of course he hasn’t changed it—he’s in control of the situation, he’s in control of me. His phone never leaves his side and I am, for the most part, supervised every minute of the day. Or he wants me to see. I go first to his contacts and search Hannah’s and Regina’s names. Nothing comes up, nothing. My husband does not know a single Hannah or Regina. But just a few weeks ago we’d been drinking cider at the market when Regina’s name had popped up on his phone: a call about their dog. I hadn’t imagined that. His text messages are void of anything interesting: my mother, my sister checking on how I am, work, clients, contractors...me. His voice mails are the same and so is his email.

I’ve not moved from the spot where I’m standing, but I’m breathing hard. He’s cleared everything. He wanted me to find this and see...nothing. I set his phone back on the coffee table, careful to position it just the way he had it, then I creep over to my laptop. But it won’t turn on. The power button stays stubbornly dark even when I hold it down. He’s done something to it. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants; my hands are shaking as I punch at the button one last time. I don’t know if I’m angry or afraid. Why would he do this? Or maybe it wasn’t him. Computers stop working all the time. Two...three...four...it doesn’t turn on. No, I bought this computer just a year ago. It was fine before...before I told my husband that I’d found his other wife, that is.

I find my phone in a rush to text Lo and tell her what’s happened. My thoughts come out in bursts as I glance over my shoulder to see if Seth has stirred in his sleep. I send one text after another until there are dozens of little blue bubbles on my screen. It looks manic and I immediately regret sending them. I delete each one in case Seth looks at my phone, and then wait for her to text me back, for the bubble to appear to acknowledge that she’s seen what I’ve sent, but it doesn’t come.

Seth has hidden my car keys and wallet. It’s just past seven when I grab a change of clothes and dig out the spare car key fob I keep hidden in the junk drawer. I’ll need cash. I bite hard on my lip as I slide the crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He keeps another five hundred in the bread box for emergencies. My walk to the kitchen is a long one, and I agonize over what I’ll do if the money is gone, but when I lift the lid, the first thing I see is the wad of cash, cello-wrapped in the corner and sitting next to one lonely raisin. I stuff an armful of necessitites into a bag and, with Seth still slumbering on the sofa, I head for the door. I freeze when the door chimes, the noise so loud in my own ears I’m convinced it has woken everyone in the building. My body tenses; Seth’s hands would be on me at any moment, pulling me back. I whip my head around to see how close he is, ready to sprint away before he gets a grip, but when my eyes search the room, I see him still slumped across the sofa in sleep.

I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone. If I run out of cash I could call Anna, ask her for some money, but she’d insist on coming out here and then I’d have to explain everything. No...think...there has to be another way. And then it comes to me. I head to the elevator, my stomach in my throat. What if he woke up? What would he do to stop me? If he tried to restrain me, would I be able to get away? I could scream, and perhaps a neighbor would come to help. I jab at the elevator button, imagining every terrible thing that could go wrong. Hurry, hurry... It will take him a bit to figure out where I’m going. He’ll check with my mother and Anna first, perhaps the hospital to see if anyone’s heard from me. That will buy me a few hours. As a last resort, he’ll assume I went to see Hannah, but by that time I’ll already be there. As the elevator jars to life, it occurs to me that Seth may have placed a tracking device on my phone. I wouldn’t put it past him, would I? There are apps for that. Phone locators. I hold the phone in my palm and stare down at it. Seth is a planner, Seth leaves no corner unswept. When the doors open, I hesitate only for a moment before I drop it on the floor of the elevator and step out.

   TWENTY-FIVE

There are new planters in front of the house, great big ceramic things that look like they weigh a hundred pounds each. I wonder if Seth hauled them from the car to the path, positioned them for her as she stood a few feet away, calling out instructions. A happy family. She’s planted bright orange and yellow calendulas in them. They sit neatly in the soil, new to the neighborhood and still tame in their growth.

I wonder what else has changed, if she’ll be showing when she opens the door, holding her stomach while she talks to me. I had a habit of doing that even before I was showing, always conscientious of the life growing inside of me. I make my way past the planters and up the path that leads to the front door. I can hear the TV on inside, a show with a laugh track. Good, that means she’s home.

I pause before ringing the bell. I left the house in a hurry and failed to even smooth my hair in the car before rushing out. Oh, well. Too late now. I ring the bell and stand back. A minute later, I hear footsteps and then the click of the lock. The door suctions open and the smell of cinnamon tangles with the night air.