After the burial, the house felt like a stranger’s.
His shoes were still by the door. His mug on the counter. His glasses on the nightstand.
I sat on the edge of our bed and stared at the closet shelf.
Eleven journals in a neat row. Greg’s handwriting on the spines.
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“Helps me think,” he’d say.
I’d never read them. It felt like opening his head.
I pulled down the first journal and opened it.
But Susan’s words were echoing: “Two. A boy and a girl.”
I pulled down the first journal and opened it.
The first entry was a week after our wedding. He wrote about our terrible honeymoon motel. The broken air conditioner. My laugh.
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I flipped through the pages.
Page after page about us.
He wrote about our first fertility appointment. Me crying in the car.
He wrote, “I wish I could trade bodies with her and take this pain.”
I went to the next journal. Then the next. Page after page about us. About our fights. Our inside jokes. My migraines. His fear of flying. Holidays. Bills.
No mention of another woman.
No secret kids. No double life.
The writing got darker.
By the time I reached the sixth journal, my eyes burned.
Halfway through, the tone changed. The writing got darker.
He wrote: “Susan pushing again. Wants us locked in for three years. Quality slipping. Last shipment bad. People got sick.”
Next entry: “Told her we’re done. She lost it. Said I was ruining her business.”
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Next: “Could sue. Lawyer says we’d win. But she has 2 kids. Don’t want to take food off their table.”
What if there were no secret children?
Under that, in heavier ink: “I’ll let it go. But I won’t forget what she’s capable of.”
I sat there on the bed, journal open, hands shaking.
Two kids. Her kids. Not his.
What if there were no secret children?
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What if she’d walked into my grief and decided it wasn’t enough?
I picked up my phone and called Peter.
I told him everything.
Peter was Greg’s closest friend from work. He’d been at the house three times already, fixing things that weren’t broken because he didn’t know what else to do.
He answered fast. “Ev?”
“I need your help. And I need you to believe me.”
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I told him everything. The note. The cameras. What Susan had said. What I’d read in the journal. He went quiet.
“Peter?” I whispered.
“I’ll help you find out what’s real.”
“I believe you,” he said finally. “I knew Ray. If he’d had kids with someone else, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it. He was a terrible liar.”
A weak laugh escaped me.
“I’ll help you find out what’s real,” he said. “You deserve that.”
***
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