Hannah is standing barefoot in the doorway looking very different than the last time I saw her. She’s wearing pajama pants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. I’m relieved to see her, and she looks well. Her eyebrows pull up when she sees me, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Why that face? I think. But then I’m suddenly self-conscious about my clothes, my hair. I probably look as unhinged as I feel. Hannah—ever so shiny and put together, like a beautiful china piece.

“I—You left a message—I didn’t know if you were okay. You look great!” and then when she stares at me oddly, I add, “I haven’t had my phone...”

My voice catches in my throat. Something isn’t right. Hannah’s face is polite, but stony. The only indication that she’s heard me is the slight widening of her eyes, the whites flashing before her lids drop, sleepy and low, once again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not sure I understand. Who are you here for?”

“You...” I say softly. “I’m here for you.” My voice is a wisp, unsure and quickly evaporated. I right my face, trying to look certain.

She lifts a hand and touches it lightly to the spot below her collarbone. She’s confused, blinking hard. “I don’t know you,” she says. “Do you have the wrong house?” She looks past me to the street, as if to see if anyone is waiting for me, or if I am alone. “What house number are you looking for? I know most of the people on this street,” she asks helpfully.

My mouth opens and closes and I feel a rush of cold prickling my skin from my neck to my heels. My breathing spikes and my eyelids grow warm.

“Hannah...?” I try one last time.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry...” Her voice is firmer now; she wants to get back to her laugh track show.

“I—” I look around, up the street and down. There’s no one outside, just the neat exteriors of the houses, windows lit by warm, yellow light. I feel locked out, isolated inside of myself. The warm, yellow light is not for me, it’s for other people. I take a step back.

“It’s me, Thursday,” I say. “We’re both... I’m married to Seth, too.”

Her eyebrows draw together and she glances behind her into the house.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. Let me get my husband, maybe he can help you...”

She’s turning around, calling to someone inside. That’s when I notice then that her hair isn’t tied back in a low ponytail like I thought; rather, it’s cropped short—a pixie cut.

“Your hair,” I say. “Did you cut it recently?” I notice her belly, too, the flatness. I almost lift a hand to my own in confusion.

She looks afraid now, her eyes darting around for help. She lifts a hand to touch it, right at the nape of her neck.

“I hope you find who you’re looking for,” she says, and then shuts the door in my face. The smell of cinnamon is cut off and I’m left with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.

I stumble back, turning around halfway down the path and running across the street to my parked car. As I fumble with the door, I turn back to look at the house, and see a shift of the drapes on the second floor, like someone is peeking out. Her—Hannah. But why is she claiming not to know me? What is happening? I climb into the car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, my breath hissing from my lips in soundless heaves. This is crazy, I feel crazy. The thought is so uncomfortable that I quickly turn the car on and drive away from the house. I’m afraid she will call the police. How would I explain?

After pulling up an address on my car’s GPS, I head for the freeway. Seth would check the larger hotels first—the hotels with robes and a minibar. He’d never consider anything else because he married a woman who prefers the finer things in life.

My head is aching and I realize I have nothing to ease it with; my travel tube of aspirin is in the purse Seth hid. For the first time in days my thoughts are sharp and clear—my headache is probably a result of my body coming down from the drugs I only pretended to take the last few days. I think of the orange bottles next to the kettle, the bitter taste of them as they melted to paste on my tongue. They were supposed to help, but they made me feel crazy, suffocating my thoughts, making me unsure of myself. Had that been what Seth wanted? To make me doubt myself and trust him instead?

Ten minutes later, the car’s GPS takes me down a long dirt road. It’s dark, but I know that to my left and through a heavy copse of trees is a lake. In the daytime, the lake is dotted with Jet Skis and paddleboarders—a weekend spot for college students and families. The road ends and I put the car in Park. The house in front of me is dark, large windows looming like hollow eyes. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and step out of the car. Please, God, let this work, I think as I head for the house. The house is two stories, surrounded by woods and down a long winding driveway. It’s a boxy design that was popular in the sixties. There is still construction equipment lying about and I have to sidestep a large metal pipe when I get out of the car. I make my way across the curved driveway, my shoes crunching on the gravel. The lockbox hangs from the front door and I kneel in front of it, wishing I’d thought to bring a flashlight. The code is the same for all of Seth’s houses; he’d told me that once when we were dating and he’d taken me to see a house he was building in Seattle. We’d wandered around the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion—me oohing and ahhing at everything inside—and then we’d had sex on the island in the kitchen.

I type the numbers into the lockbox, praying Seth hasn’t changed the code. It opens with a satisfying click and I shake the key into my hand. I slide it into the keyhole, the door opens and I step inside. I stare around, feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. I’m hiding in plain sight. The air smells like cigarettes and damp towels, so I breathe through my mouth as I walk slowly into the house, my eyes darting around. The Cottonmouth house: source of endless headaches. It’s on 66 Cottonmouth Road, which is why Seth nicknamed it the snake house. Four months ago, the owner of the house had a stroke and was hospitalized. His son, not knowing what the fate of his father would be and unwilling to foot the bill himself, put the project on hold indefinitely. Seth has been frustrated by the whole ordeal and has complained about it often, which is why I have all the details memorized. I open the drapes, letting dull yellow moonlight stream into the small entry space. The carpet is overworked, a once royal blue now faded to a patchy denim. It’s rolled up in places where the contractors had started work on the floors. I gaze out of the window and up at the night sky. If the sun were out, the sky would be a goose gray, the clouds oppressively heavy. Time—this place has had so much time to crack, curl and fade. I walk over to the tiny entryway bathroom and risk turning on the light. I squat as I pee, scrunching my nose at the stale smell coming from the drain. There are rust stains in the outdated sink and a grating noise when I turn the tap off. When I lift my eyes to the mirror, I see pale, washed-out skin, dark moons in the scoops beneath my eyes. No wonder Hannah had looked so alarmed when she opened the door.