My husband died in another woman’s apartment, and when his family demanded that I pay for his funeral, I discovered they had been hiding his affair from me for years.

I parked my sedan half a block down from the luxury brick building on Elmwood. The neighborhood was quiet, lined with towering maple trees and multi-million-dollar brownstones.

Sitting in the curbside parking bay was Aaron’s black BMW 5-Series.

My hands shook as I approached it, clutching my spare key fob. When I hit the unlock button, the amber lights flashed. I pulled open the driver’s side door. The interior smelled overwhelmingly of Aaron’s woodsy cologne, mixed sickeningly with a heavy, floral perfume that definitely didn't belong to me.

On the passenger seat lay a pair of designer sunglasses and a silk scarf matching the one Elena had worn at the hospital.

I opened the glove compartment. The usual registration papers were there, but tucked behind the manufacturer’s manual was a slim leather organizer. I pulled it out.

Inside were bank deposit slips, property tax statements, and a notarized lease agreement.

I scanned the first page of the lease, the blood draining from my face until my lips felt numb. The tenant listed was *Elena Vance*. The co-signer and guarantor was *Aaron Blake*.

The rent was four thousand two hundred dollars a month. Paid on the first of every month, direct from an account marked *A&D Logistics*.

There was no such logistics company. Aaron had told me for three years that his freelance graphic design business was struggling due to the post-pandemic market, that clients were delaying payments, that we had to cut back our household spending. I had tightened our grocery budget, skipped vacations, and worked sixty-hour weeks at my accounting firm to cover our primary mortgage.

All while he funded a luxury penthouse for Elena.

Tucked into the back pocket of the organizer was a receipt from a local jeweler dated three weeks prior.