Chapter 5: Mileage Number Didn't Match His Drive
Bedroom door still half-open, hinge squeak echo faded. Derek remained in hallway, not crossing threshold. I sat on edge of bed, sticky note unfolded on quilt, numbers blurred then sharp. Morning light through blinds cut stripes across wood floor, same daylight as kitchen, no time passed. Tote bag on bedroom chair, unzipped, receipt wadded inside from yesterday still there.
His explanation replayed: lot full, sat in parking lot, drove to gas station, paid cash. Story fragile, contradicted earlier gym claim. Sweat mark at collar suggested longer drive than block to gym.
I stood. Walked back to kitchen quickly, bare feet silent. He looked up, surprised.
"Keys," I said.
He frowned. "Keys?"
"Car keys. Need mileage."
He hesitated. Hand went to pocket, pulled out key fob. Silver Toyota emblem worn.
"Why mileage?" he asked.
"Need check distance," I said. "Gym three miles round trip. Parking lot sit zero miles added. Gas station maybe one mile extra. So odometer should show four miles max since yesterday."
He held keys out, then pulled back slightly. Micro-expression: eyes darted toward window, toward driveway.
"You track mileage now?" he asked.
"Yes."
He placed keys in my palm, metal warm from pocket. Our fingers brushed, brief.
I pushed past him to side door, opened to driveway. Heat hit face, summer air thick. Pavement shimmered. His silver sedan parked at angle, front tire over crack in concrete.
I opened driver door. Interior smell leather, old coffee. Dashboard dusty. Odometer digital when I pressed start: 42,817. I remembered yesterday number without trying — 42,789. I had driven his car Friday to county grocery, noted mileage for gas log. Difference = 28 miles.
28 miles not 4.
My breath caught. Hand gripped steering wheel, plastic hot.
Derek appeared at doorway, silhouette against kitchen light.
"Well?" he called.
I stepped out, left door open, chime dinging.
"Twenty-eight miles since yesterday," I said. Voice flat, controlled. "Gym three miles away."
He blinked. "I told you drove around."
"Drove around twenty-five extra miles? Where?"
He leaned against doorframe, dark gray shirt sticking to back now.
"Took highway loop," he said quickly. "Cleared head."
"Highway loop where calls happened? Moving car while on phone eleven minutes? Local number still connected?"
He rubbed jaw, stubble audible.
"Pulled over for call," he said. "Then loop."
Timeline collapsed. 7:12 leave, 7:48 call, 8:15 call, 9:03 return. Gap eighty-one minutes. 28 miles fits highway drive. Not parking lot sit.
I closed car door, chime stopped. Keys heavy in hand, edge cut into palm.
"Which highway?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Sixty-nine north."
"County Road Sixty-nine has construction," I said. "Sheriff cruiser rolls slow down Main, would have seen you if you went north. No detour signs northbound."
He looked away toward flag art visible through kitchen window.
"Maybe south then," he said.
Second change within minute. Direction shift obvious lie marker. My chest tightened. Bottle on island inside seemed miles away yet visible through doorway.
I placed keys on roof of car, not handing them back directly.
"Need gas receipt from loop," I said. "Cash still leaves receipt if asked."
"Didn't ask," he said.
I stared at odometer through windshield, numbers glowing 42,817, undeniable. Pendant necklace slipped inside camisole, cold.
He stepped toward car, grabbed keys off roof.
"Stop checking mileage," he said, quiet plea. "Trust me."
"You said temp agency," I said. "Mileage says elsewhere. Calls say someone else. Gym says not there."
May you like
He said nothing, key fob clenched, knuckles white. Distance between us now driveway concrete, hot, wide. Relationship chill deepened, air colder despite heat.
I turned back toward kitchen, left him by car, screen door slapped behind me. Bottle, towel, phone still on island inside, center stage, waiting for next check.
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