It seeped into the room the way dampness creeps into walls—quietly, patiently, until one day it is everywhere and you can no longer remember what the air used to feel like before it changed.

Eight years living with a married man.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

“The news report says she disappeared,” I whispered. “The letter mentions a road. Blood. An ambulance.”

Her lips pressed together.

He took a step towards me.

—It was an accident.

I gave another one backwards.

-I don’t believe you.

“It was an accident!” he repeated, louder. “We argued in the truck. She wanted to get out. It had been raining. She slipped. She hit her head. There was blood everywhere. I… I panicked.”

I stared at him without being able to blink.

—And you let her die.

His silence answered first.

Then he spoke.

—He wasn’t breathing.

—Did you call anyone?

He didn’t answer.

—Did you call someone?!

—No.

The word fell like a stone.

No.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t ask for help.

He didn’t give any warning.

He only cleaned.

He hid.

He traveled.

He lied.