My eighth attempt at reasoning with the smart lock manufacturer ended in another dead end. Frustrated, I pulled up their official website and fired off a scathing review. "This lock is absolute garbage. The passcode fails in the middle of the night for no reason, and I’m left stranded outside my own home. Save your money!" I hammered the keys, my pulse thrumming with irritation. The company replied almost instantly, hiding behind three sterile-looking inspection reports they attached to the thread. “We’re sorry to hear about your experience, but our products are military-grade and pass a triple-layer quality check before shipping,” they wrote, the digital equivalent of a shrug. I was ready to tear into them again when a notification popped up. A new comment from a user with a blank black avatar. “Are you sure it’s the lock? Maybe your husband is changing the code on purpose. He could be hiding someone in there while you’re at work.” I actually snorted at the screen. Hiding someone? My husband, Patrick, was the Chief of Neurosurgery. He spent twenty hours a day at the hospital, barely finding time to come home himself, let alone host a guest. “My husband works enough overtime to qualify for a cot in the ER. He barely has time to see me, let alone anyone else,” I shot back. A few minutes passed. Then, the black avatar replied again. “Honey, you don’t have to hide someone in your own apartment. Have you checked the floors above or below you?” The words hit me like a physical chill. My fingers felt heavy as I instinctively opened the tracking app on my phone to check Patrick’s location. On the screen, the little red dot representing his phone pulsed. It showed him exactly six meters away from me. 1 I’d set up the location sharing years ago during a hiking trip in the Tetons, and Patrick had likely forgotten it even existed. I stared at that red dot until my eyes burned. My mind was a complete blank. Patrick and I were the "it" couple—college sweethearts who actually made it. Six years of dating, three years of marriage. For nine years, he’d carried me on a pedestal. He’d come home from a double shift and still insist on doing the laundry or vacuuming just so I could rest. On his rare days off, he’d spend the afternoon at the farmer's market, picking out the best ingredients to make me honey-glazed ribs or garlic butter shrimp. I would have believed in ghosts before I believed Patrick was capable of infidelity. He was obsessed with me. Why would he go through the elaborate trouble of resetting our door codes just to sneak around? But the red dot kept blinking. According to the map, he was in our building. If he wasn't in our unit, he had to be above or below. Mrs. Gable lived upstairs; Mrs. Higgins lived below. Mrs. Higgins was sixty-two. My legs moved before I could tell them to stop. I climbed the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached Mrs. Gable’s door and took a ragged breath, trying to stop the shaking. It was impossible. Mrs. Gable was at least six years older than Patrick and worked in liquor sales. If Patrick were going to throw our life away, surely he’d do it with one of those gorgeous, young surgical nurses who looked at him like he was a god? He had better taste than this. He wasn't that desperate. I remembered a few years back, a young intern with a powerful family background had made a very public play for him. She’d send massive bouquets of roses to his office and home-cooked bento boxes. She even cornered me at the hospital entrance once. "June, let’s be real," she’d said, tossing her perfectly highlighted hair. "You’re an orphan with no connections. You can’t help Patrick’s career. Give him up, and I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars and a promotion at your firm." Patrick had walked up right then to pick me up. He didn't even look at her. He just shoved her aside, his face uncharacteristically dark. "I love June," he’d said, his voice like cold steel. "And I’ll never have any interest in a woman who thinks she can buy people. Get out of our way." He’d pulled me away, his grip firm. I remember being shocked; Patrick was usually the most polite, soft-spoken man I knew. That display of venom was entirely for me. He lost a shot at a Deputy Chief position because of that girl's father, but he didn't care. That night, he held me so tight I could barely breathe. "June, a hundred thousand can’t buy my life. I’ll make more for us. Don't you ever think about leaving me." A man like that doesn't cheat. I stood at Mrs. Gable’s door, looking at my phone. The red dot was three meters away. My stomach lurched. I turned to go back down. Three steps down, the distance changed to four meters. I stood on the landing for ten minutes, paralyzed. Then, I turned back around and knocked. I heard a frantic scuffling from inside. It took a full two minutes before the door creaked open. Mrs. Gable stood there, and the sight of her made my blood turn to ice. Her face was flushed, her hair was a mess, and she was fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, trying to hide her chest. Pinned to her collar was a silver brooch—a black butterfly with onyx wings. It was crooked, hanging precariously from the fabric. A bomb went off in my brain. He was here. He was actually here. It turns out when a man is hungry enough, he doesn't care about the menu. The rage was a physical thing, hot and blinding. I kicked the door open and screamed at the top of my lungs. "Patrick! You son of a bitch! Get out here!" The bathroom door snapped open. Patrick stepped out, his hands covered in dark grime, looking at me with pure confusion. "June? What are you doing here?" 2 I stared at him. He was a mess—his white dress shirt was streaked with grease and gray smudges. His face was smeared with dirt. I stood in the center of the living room, my chest heaving, the words dying in my throat. Patrick quickly wiped his hands on a rag, mumbling, "You’re home early. Mrs. Gable had a burst pipe, and she was worried it would leak down into our place. She asked if I could take a look before the emergency plumber got here." He walked over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his voice returning to that familiar, soothing tone. "I’ve got dinner warming in the oven for you. I was just about to head down." Mrs. Gable stepped forward, looking embarrassed. "I’m so sorry, June. I know Dr. Halloway has so little free time, but I didn't know who else to call." Patrick naturally wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "Neighbors help neighbors, Mrs. Gable. No worries." "I’ve patched it for now," he continued, leading me toward the door. "But you’ll definitely need a pro to look at it tomorrow. Come on, June. Let's go home." The tension drained out of me so fast I felt lightheaded. My heart settled back into its rhythm. Everything made sense now—they were just in the bathroom working on the plumbing. I managed a weak, apologetic smile for Mrs. Gable as we left. But as the door started to swing shut, I looked back. I saw Patrick glance over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met for a split second, and they shared a look. It wasn't a neighborly nod. it was a secret, knowing smile. A silent communication that didn't need words. My heart didn't just drop; it shattered. Back in our apartment, Patrick bent over our smart lock, tinkering with the keypad. A moment later, it beeped. "Probably just a sticky key," he said. "I’ve cleared the cache and reset it through my phone. Should be fine now." He shed his dirty shirt and headed into the kitchen, his voice cheerful. "Sweetheart, you’ve got to try this. I made a new wasabi-infused lobster tail. Tell me if it’s better than the place downtown." He held a piece of succulent meat to my lips. I opened my mouth mechanically. I chewed, I swallowed, but it tasted like ash. "It's good," I whispered. "Perfect." Patrick chattered away as he shelled the rest of the lobster for me. He talked about the hospital, about a patient whose prognosis was improving, about his successful surgery that morning. He mentioned how his phone hadn't stopped ringing even on his day off, with interns asking for advice. Normally, I’d be laughing, engaging with his stories. But all I could see was that look he gave Mrs. Gable. It wasn't the look of a man who’d just fixed a pipe. It was the look of a conspirator. He noticed my silence and pressed a hand to my forehead. "You okay? You look pale. Work was that bad?" I pushed down the bile in my throat. "Just tired." "Go lie down on the sofa. I'll handle the dishes." He moved through the kitchen with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. He looked so honest. So grounded. I started to gaslight myself. I’m just sensitive. The lock is stressing me out. That internet troll got inside my head. Patrick is perfect. Patrick is busy. How could he possibly be cheating? But a voice in the back of my head wouldn't shut up. Every time he has a day off, the lock 'breaks.' That’s not a coincidence. That’s a barricade. The sound of running water filled the kitchen. My gaze drifted to the smart lock at the entrance. Its screen was dark, like a silent, judging eye. Driven by a sudden, sickening impulse, I grabbed my phone and opened the tracking app again. The red dot was right here, overlapping with mine. My fingers trembled as I swiped up to view his location history. As the list of addresses loaded, a cold sweat broke out across my skin. March 8th: 1422 Magnolia Court. March 14th: The Highrise on 5th. March 18th: Velvet Lounge & Bar. He’d stay for an hour, sometimes four. And during those exact windows, I had texts from him. “At the grocery store, babe. Need anything?” “Dropping off some files at the clinic, be back soon.” And my replies: “Honey, the lock is acting up again. I can’t get in. Please hurry.” And ten minutes later, like clockwork, Patrick would always appear to "fix" the lock and let me in. My head spun. My vision blurred. Nine years of devotion. Nine years of a "perfect" marriage. It was all a curated performance. He was cheating. And it wasn't just one woman. He was resetting my access to my own home from his phone, locking me out so he’d have time to finish his business and drive back to play the hero. 3 Patrick finished the dishes and dried his hands. "I'm going to jump in the shower. I smell like a sewer. If I don't scrub down, you'll be complaining about the smell all night." I exited the app and sat perfectly still, watching him walk into the bathroom. The moment the shower started, I grabbed my keys and ran. "June? Can you grab me my robe?" his voice echoed through the door, warm and muffled. "June? You there?" The door clicked shut behind me. I practically threw myself into a taxi and gave the driver the first address on the list: Magnolia Court. I shoved a wad of cash at the driver and sprinted toward the unit. When the door opened, a woman I didn't recognize stood there. "Can I help you?" I stared at her. She was short, with a bob cut and a slightly round face. She wasn't a sexy nurse. She wasn't a "trophy" mistress. She was just... ordinary. Plain clothes, plain face. A woman you wouldn't look at twice in a crowd. Then I looked at her collar. My pupils dilated. The silver brooch. The black butterfly with onyx wings. It was identical to the one Mrs. Gable had been wearing. My brain felt like it was fracturing. Shards of memories and suspicions collided. I couldn't breathe. I turned and ran down the stairs, the pain in my head so sharp I thought I might lose consciousness. I collapsed onto a stone bench in the courtyard and called my best friend, Bella. I was incoherent, sobbing. "June, stay put!" Bella’s voice was sharp with worry. "I'm coming to get you. Do not move. We’ll figure this out." Bella arrived within minutes. She pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back, her expression grim. "June, it's okay. It's okay. We’re going to get through this." I shoved my phone in her face, pointing at the tracking history with a shaking finger. "Bella, you have to come with me. I need proof. I need to catch him in the act." Bella looked at the screen, her expression strange. "June... you’re just stressed. Let's go home and sleep. We can deal with this in the morning." I pushed her away, my voice rising to a scream. "Are you even on my side? Patrick is a liar! He’s been cheating on me for God knows how long! He’s been locking me out of the house like a dog so he can screw around!" The tears were a deluge now. My heart felt like it was being pricked by a thousand needles—not a sharp pain, but a dull, pervasive ache that wouldn't stop. I wiped my face and stood up. "Fine. Stay here. I'll do it myself. I'm going to tear that fake mask right off his face." Bella scrambled to follow me. "June, wait! I'll go with you. If he’s really doing this, I’ll help you bury him. Just... slow down." I didn't slow down. We drove to the next address. My heart felt like it had stopped beating as we reached the door. The door opened. A young girl, maybe twenty, with a ponytail and bright, clear eyes, looked at us. "Hi? Are you looking for someone?" A fresh wave of agony hit me. He was truly a monster. He was rotating through them—the older woman, the plain woman, the college girl. He was just sampling lives. The kitchen door behind her swung open. A familiar figure stepped out. "Tilly, who is it?" The girl turned back with a bright smile. "I don't know, maybe they have the wrong house." The silver butterfly brooch on her chest glinted under the hallway light. She turned to him, naturally taking a plate from his hands. A plate of honey-glazed ribs. The way he looked at her—the tenderness, the practiced domesticity—it was a mirror image of how he looked at me. He was taking care of her. He was giving her the exact same "unique" love he gave me. The last thread of my sanity snapped. "Patrick!" I lunged forward, fueled by a year’s worth of repressed subconsciousness, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of my strength. The sound echoed through the small apartment. Patrick’s face slowly turned toward me, a red handprint blooming on his cheek. "June? How... how did you find me?" The girl, Tilly, screamed and tried to push me away. "You crazy bitch! Why did you hit him? Get out!" A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my chest. My head slammed against the doorframe as she shoved me. Suddenly, the world was a strobe light of disjointed images. Blood. So much blood. The sound of sirens—the rhythmic wail of an ambulance, the harsh pulse of a police cruiser. Faces blurred in and out of view. Someone was screaming my name. "Patient’s BP is bottoming out! Heart rate is crashing!" "Get a hundred milligrams of epinephrine, IV, now!" The black butterfly on the girl’s chest hovered over me, flickering, stinging my eyes. The world went black. 4 It was dark and freezing. Suddenly, a pair of headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the world—and Patrick’s terrified face. The car swerved violently to the left. Patrick steered directly into the path of the oncoming semi-truck. The airbag deployed with a thunderous bang. I saw the massive grill of the truck crush the driver's side. Patrick was pinned, the metal folding around him like paper. I stared, paralyzed, as he reached out a trembling hand toward me. Blood was pouring down his face, masking his features, but he was smiling. "June... stay strong... take care of yourself." "Don't cry, baby. I'm... I'm always with you." Patrick coughed, a spray of crimson hitting the silver butterfly brooch pinned to my coat. His fingers twitched, his voice fading to a whisper, a broken doll trying to stroke my cheek one last time. I screamed. "Patrick, wake up! Don't you dare close your eyes!" "Patrick, the baby! You haven't seen the baby yet! Stay with me!" The sirens were deafening now. People were pulling at the wreckage, trying to get to him. "Stop! You're hurting him!" I shrieked. Yellow police tape was being unrolled. The crowd was whispering. "He’s gone. Crushed instantly." "Look at the car. He swerved left. He took the full hit to save his wife on the passenger side. What a man." The rain started to pour. A crane began to lift the heavy freight from the mangled remains of our car. When they pried the door open, I saw him—what was left of him. A sharp, electric pain shot through me, and I fainted. I felt something warm and wet running down my legs. I was shivering, curled into a ball on the floor, tears streaming down my face. "June, wake up. June, it’s Mom. I’m here." A warm hand touched my face. Wet droplets—tears that weren't mine—fell on my cheek. The shivering began to subside. "June, please open your eyes. You’re scaring us." I blinked. White ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A familiar face appeared above me. "June, my sweet girl. You’ve been through so much." My mother held me tight. My head was a mess of static and stabbing pain. I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed. "Mom, I had the most horrible dream. Patrick died. There was so much blood." Her body stiffened. Her voice was cautious, trembling. "June... it’s okay. It’s over now." What do you mean, it’s over? The memory of Patrick in the apron, serving ribs to that girl, flashed back. "Mom, Patrick is cheating on me. I saw it. I saw them." "He’s so cruel. You treated him like a son, and he betrayed me." My mother looked at me with a heart-wrenching expression. She stroked my hair, her voice breaking. "June, don't think about that right now. Just rest." I became frantic. I grabbed Bella, who was standing at the foot of the bed. "Bella, you saw it too! Tell her! That girl, Tilly, she was there!" The tears wouldn't stop. Patrick, how could you? I’ve been with you since we were eighteen. I lived in basement apartments with you, I supported you through med school... Bella stepped forward, her eyes filled with a terrible, heavy sadness. She looked at my mother, then back at me. "Mrs. Halloway, tell her the truth," Bella whispered. "Don't let her live in the fantasy anymore. Even if it breaks her, she deserves to know." I stared at Bella. What was she talking about? I was the one who was cheated on. Bella leaned in, her voice steady and devastating. "June. Patrick is dead. He died saving you." "You aren't dreaming. This is the reality."
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