Chapter 4: Gray Shirt Sweat Mark Gave Him Away
Phone still face-up on marble island, screen lit. Unknown number glowed. 7:48 outgoing, 11 minutes. 8:15 incoming, 4 minutes. Both local. Kitchen light bright, harsh. Bottle, towel remained centered, untouched. Wood floor cold under bare feet. My sticky note with handwritten number curled at edge in my palm.
Derek stood in hallway threshold, hands at sides this time, not braced on counter. Dark gray shirt showed sweat mark at collar. His breathing audible, shallow. He watched phone, then me.
I picked up phone again. Thumb hovered over callback button. My pulse loud in ears.
"You said temp agency," I said.
He nodded once. "Yeah."
"Temp agency calls Sunday morning? Twice?"
Silence stretched. Pendant necklace felt heavy against skin. Tote bag lay dumped on counter now, strap hanging off marble edge.
He swallowed. "They had shift fill. Early."
"Gym closed still?" I asked. "You left at seven twelve. According checks, you weren't at gym. Parking lot camera at lot would show empty spot. Your app showed no check-in this morning. Last check-in yesterday five forty-two."
His jaw tightened. Micro-expression flickered — eyes narrowed, lip pressed.
"My phone died?" he tried.
"Location gap seven twelve to nine zero three," I said. "Map showed gap. No data. Then calls."
I held sticky note forward. Small handwriting tight, cramped.
"Call came while we argued," I said. "Same number."
He looked at sticky note, then at phone, then at floor. Wood grain seemed suddenly interesting to him.
"Maya," he said, voice low. "Put phone down."
"Why?"
"Because you check everything so closely now."
I remembered his line from earlier: Why are you checking everything so closely? Same defensive tone returned. Arms crossed before, now arms dropped, helpless.
I stepped closer. Marble edge pressed against hip. Smell of coffee faint from trash bin, old grounds.
"I need name," I said. "Not agency. Name."
He exhaled long. Shoulders dropped.
"Look," he said. "I drove to gym. Lot full. Group class cancelled. I sat in parking lot, made calls. Didn't want to come home empty-handed, say I skipped workout."
Contradiction immediate. Earlier story: went to gym, worked out. Now story: lot full, sat in car, made calls.
I stared. Eyes burned.
"You sat in parking lot eleven minutes on phone?" I asked.
"Yeah. Then drove around."
"Drove where?"
"Gas station. Got water." He gestured toward bottle on island, half-filled clear bottle with gray flip lid. "Needed air."
His explanation thin, rehearsed. Sweat mark at collar darker now. Pendant chain twisted around my finger.
"Temp agency needs gas station water?" I asked.
He rubbed back of neck. "Separate things."
"Show me gas station receipt," I said.
He patted pockets, empty. "Paid cash."
Silence filled kitchen. Pendant light hummed faint. American flag wall art bright behind him, colors sharp.
I slid phone back across marble toward him, same movement his hand made earlier, push then release. Phone stopped midway. Screen dimmed.
"Next time phone rings, I answer," I said.
He didn't reach for phone. Hands stayed at sides. Curtains over sink shifted with draft.
May you like
He said nothing. That silence heavier than lie.
I walked past him toward bedroom, sticky note folded into palm, crease sharp against skin. Door about to close behind me, hinge squeaked. I paused, hand on frame, waiting for truth to follow.
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