Part 2: He Came Home With Diamonds for His Mistress and Found the Nursery Empty, but His Wife Had Left One Thing He Could Never Buy Back

Sunday evening arrived with a drizzling October rain that turned the asphalt slick and reflective.

Trevor sat in the back of an Uber from the airport, a smug smile playing on his lips. The weekend in "Atlanta"—which had actually been a lavish three-day escape at a secluded resort in the Blue Ridge Mountains with Vanessa—had been intoxicating. Vanessa admired him. She laughed at his jokes, made him feel powerful, and didn't spend hours smelling like baby spit-up and crying over sore nipples.

In Trevor’s pocket was another velvet box. A matching pair of diamond earrings he planned to give Vanessa for her birthday next month. He had tucked it into his coat, feeling like an untouchable king.

Sure, Candace had shown up at the gala, but he had handled her. A few stern words about postpartum paranoia and she had folded like a cheap suit. That was the beauty of Candace; she was soft. She was compliant. She would stay at home, look after Hope, keep the hearth warm, while he indulged his appetites. He could have both worlds.

The car pulled into the driveway of their suburban home.

Trevor frowned. The house was pitch-black. Usually, the porch light was on and the warm glow from the nursery lamp cast a soft silhouette against the front window.

“Forgot to turn the lights on,” he muttered to himself, grabbing his weekend duffel and stepping out into the rain.

He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “Candy? I’m home! Flight landed early!”

Silence greeted him.

The air inside felt cold, stale, and unnervingly still. The ambient temperature was down to sixty degrees.

Trevor clicked the foyer light switch.

The hallway was barren. The entryway console table, where Candace usually placed fresh hydrangeas and the mail, was gone.

“Candace?” he called out, his voice sharp with sudden irritation. “What is this? Where are you?”

He walked into the living room. The large family portrait that had hung above the fireplace—taken when Candace was eight months pregnant, both of them smiling radiantly in a field of sunflowers—was missing. In its place was a bare hook and an empty square on the wall.

A cold trickle of dread touched Trevor’s spine.

He dropped his duffel on the floor and took the stairs two at a time. “Candace!”

He ran straight to the master bedroom. The closet door hung open. Half the closet—Candace’s half—was entirely empty. Her clothes, her shoes, her vanity perfume bottles, all gone. But what truly stopped his breath was the open door down the hall.

The nursery.

Trevor walked slowly toward the threshold. He reached his hand out, trembling slightly, and flipped the wall switch.

The light illuminated four bare sage walls.

The crib was gone. The white dresser was gone. The rugs, the books, the toys, the tiny clothes—erased. Not a speck of dust remained. The room looked as if a child had never existed in it at all.