Page 69 of The Thinnest Air
“It’s true, Edith,” her husband chimes in from his sunken-in spot on the living room sectional. “Give her a key so we can finish this damn show and clear it off the DVR.”
Mrs.Conway places a finger in the air before closing the door. When she returns, she places a shiny gold key in my hand.
“Here,” she says. “Bring it back to me as soon as you’re done, you got that? And don’t steal anything.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With that, I’m gone. Heart pumping, cheeks flushed, vision dizzy and blurred, I run back to the apartment and jam the key in the lock so hard I worry I might have broken it off, but with a quick twist the lock pops.
I’m in.
A stale scent fills my lungs, like the place is void of fresh oxygen. The counters are clear of clutter and recently wiped down at some point, and the pillows on the sofa are fluffed. Whenever he left, it doesn’t appear that he did it in a hurry.
His family photos still line the fireplace mantel.
His shoes are neatly placed on a rug by the door, save for his favorite pair of leather Chucks and his black Doc Marten combat boots.
The way he left the place makes it look like he’s out running errands, due back at any moment.
Moving into the kitchen, I open a few cupboards, finding cans of Wolfgang Puck soups and unopened boxes of his favorite organic version of Frosted Flakes. I check the fridge next.
It’s empty.
No milk. No eggs. No butter.
Nothing perishable. Nothing that would start to smell over a long period of time.
In fact, the fridge isn’t even cold.
He turned it off before he left, which tells me he planned to be gone for some time.
Slamming the door, I check his bedroom next. His bed is made, the corners neatly tucked and the pillows standing upright against the headboard, and his laundry hamper is empty.
Opening the closet doors with a clean jerk, I find it in a state of haphazard disarray.
My heart sinks.
A significant portion of his clothes is missing.
Jeans, T-shirts—all the casual stuff is gone. Nothing hangs but a few old suits he never wore except for special occasions, a collection of skinny ties, and a bunch of old, pilling sweaters from college he’s been meaning to donate for years.
I check his bathroom next.
His cinnamon toothpaste. His argan oil shampoo. His triple-blade razors.
All of it ... gone.
CHAPTER 31
MEREDITH
Eight Months Ago
“You’re making a huge mistake.” Harris sounds particularly annoyed with me tonight.
I’ve spent the better part of the last few months venting to him about Andrew, and tonight I’ve dropped a handful of bombshells.
Couples counseling is going exceedingly well.
