“Sir,” he said, “who else is inside the residence?”

Michael froze. Linda’s face lost its color.

“What do you mean, who else?”

Neither Michael nor Linda answered. The officer’s voice sharpened.

“Sir. I asked you a question.”

Michael swallowed. And for the first time since I arrived home, I understood something far worse than being locked out of my own condo. Michael hadn’t changed the locks just to keep me out. his mother already knew.

PART 2 — THE CRACKS BENEATH OUR MARRIAGE

The officer looked from me to Michael, then toward the pile of my belongings lining the hallway. He was older than his partner, maybe in his early fifties, with tired eyes and the patient expression of someone who had spent years walking into arguments that had started long before he arrived. His gaze settled on Michael.

“Sir,” he said, “are you the owner of this unit?”