The second year, he replaced the bathroom flooring.
The third year, he resealed the shower.
The fourth year, he insisted on repainting the ceiling.
And every time I asked why, he had an answer.
Humidity.
Mold.
Hard water.
Maintenance.
Anything except the truth.
The police arrived twenty minutes later.
Clare spoke to them first.
She explained her professional background and why she believed the bathroom might contain evidence.
The officers secured the room.
Ethan was still gone.
One of them asked me when I expected him home.
“I don’t know.”
That was the first time I realized something terrifying.
I genuinely didn’t know where my husband was.
His phone was still at home.
His truck was gone.
And for the first time in five years, I understood how little I actually knew about his life outside our house.
Clare stayed beside me while the officers examined the bathroom.
