Chapter 3: The Gym That Didn't See Him
We drove separately. That was my call. I said I needed air and he said okay too quickly, like separate cars made it easier for both of us to be wrong in private. I followed his silver sedan the six blocks to the fitness center on Main, past the diner and the gas station where the sign read $3.49. The parking lot was half full, morning regulars. His car pulled into a spot near the side entrance and mine pulled two spots over. The pavement smelled like hot asphalt even before noon.
Inside, the front desk smelled like rubber mats and cleaner. A girl with a clipboard and a ponytail looked up and smiled like she knew him. I hung back near the water fountain while he tapped his key tag on the scanner. It beeped green. He looked at me over his shoulder.
"See," he said, quiet.
The girl said, "Morning, Derek," and I felt my stomach drop because she'd said it casually, not like someone who hadn't seen him today, but like someone who saw him often. I stepped up.
"Can you tell me when this tag last checked in before right now?" I asked. My voice sounded polite, practiced. I added, "My husband thinks he left his headphones here this morning."
She typed, frowning at the screen. The scanner light blinked. She turned the monitor slightly so I couldn't see but I could see her eyes move.
"Before this tap, last was yesterday at 5:42 p.m.," she said. "I don't show anything this morning."
The air conditioning hummed loud. Derek kept his hand on the scanner even after it beeped, his knuckles pale. I stared at the time on her screen, 9:31 a.m., and at the empty cubbies behind her where headphones would have been logged.
"You were here yesterday evening," I said to him. Not a question.
He took his hand off the scanner. "I was. I told you I go most mornings. I went yesterday."
"You said you went this morning," I said. The girl pretended to look for headphones she knew weren't there, giving us a few feet of privacy that wasn't privacy at all.
Second scene, the parking lot. The sun had moved higher and made the cars throw short shadows. We stood between our two vehicles and didn't touch. He opened his water bottle and finally drank, a long sip that made his throat move.
"I drove there," he said. "I sat in the lot. I didn't go in. I was on a call."
I looked at his car, at the faint dust on the dashboard visible through the windshield. "For two hours? In the parking lot?"
"Not two hours," he said. His tone stayed even, but his breathing was faster. "Forty minutes. I drove around after."
I thought about the location gap on his phone, 7:12 to 9:03 with nothing in between, as if it had been off or on airplane mode, which is not how the gym app works. I wanted to check his call log right there but the lot was too open, people carrying gym bags past us, a sheriff cruiser rolling slow down Main.
Third scene, our kitchen again, twenty minutes later. The bottle, towel, and phone were exactly where we'd left them, the island centered in the bright light like a stage reset. I picked up his phone again and this time went to recent calls. Outgoing at 7:48 a.m. to a number without a contact name, duration 11 minutes. Incoming at 8:15 from the same number, duration 4 minutes. No other calls that morning.
"Who is this?" I asked, holding the screen toward him.
He didn't look at the screen long. "Work. Temp agency."
I checked the number's area code. It was local, same county. I copied it onto a sticky note from the junk drawer, my handwriting small and tight. He watched me write and didn't stop me.
"I'll call it," I said.
He reached for the towel, folded it again even though it was already folded, aligning the edges precisely. "Don't," he said. "It's not what you think."
The last scene was the hallway before our bedroom, where the light switch had a faint fingerprint smudge I'd never noticed. I stood with the sticky note in my hand and realized I'd stopped asking where he was and started asking who he was talking to while he wasn't where he said he was. That was a different question entirely, and it needed more than a parking lot answer.
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He followed me to the doorway but stopped at the threshold, hands at his sides this time, not on a counter to brace himself. "I was going to tell you after today," he said.
I looked at him, at the dark gray shirt that now had a small sweat mark at the collar from the drive, and waited for the rest of the sentence that would tell me whether I was supposed to be angry or scared. The phone on the island buzzed once behind us, screen lighting up face-up, and we both turned toward the sound.
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