After two exhausting months away at my sick father’s bedside, I finally returned home—only to hear my front door unlock. A young woman stepped inside like she belonged. When I demanded to know who she was, her answer gave me chills: “Michael gave me the key.”
The strange, sweet scent lingering in the air made sense now. This woman had been in my space, walking my floors, touching my things while I suffered in a hospital chair.
Clutching my bathrobe, I glared. “Who gave you a key?”
She tilted her head. “Michael. He told me to make myself at home.”
The world tilted. Michael, my husband? The man I had trusted completely? The same man who barely visited while I was gone?
Fuming, I led her to the kitchen, where Michael sat, sipping coffee. When she saw him, she frowned. “Who’s that?”
Michael looked up, confused.
The woman showed us a photo. My stomach dropped.
“Jason? Your brother?”
Michael groaned. Jason had lied, using our home to impress her.
We called Jason. “I reported an intruder,” I lied. “Guess whose name I gave?”
Panic. Apologies.
“Change the locks,” I told Michael. “Now.”
