Page 3

Thomas Whitman looked down at the bathroom counter, a bit disturbed by how familiar it was becoming to him.

The granite surface gleamed under the recessed lighting, spotless.

The entire bathroom was spotless, actually, like the rest of Jill’s house.

She kept a clean home, which was pretty much a stark contrast to how she behaved in the bedroom.

He chuckled to himself at this thought, checking his reflection in the mirror.

His greying black hair was slightly mussed but presentably so—exactly how it might look after a long day at the office.

The crisp white collar of his dress shirt showed no lipstick marks, and his blue silk tie hung perfectly straight.

To anyone else, he'd look like any other tech executive heading home after a typical Tuesday.

The endorphins still coursed through his system, making his movements fluid and easy.

He could still feel Jill's fingernails on his back, still taste the mint of her lip balm.

At forty-eight, he hadn't expected to feel this alive again.

Hadn't expected the rush that came with sneaking around, the thrill of forbidden pleasure that made him feel like a teenager breaking curfew.

Through the bathroom door, he heard Jill humming—some pop song he should probably know but didn't. The domestic sound of it twisted something in his gut. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps just the recognition that this wasn't really his life to share.

He opened the door to find her making the bed, her movements quick and efficient.

She'd already changed into comfier clothes (after having peeled out of her work clothes half an hour ago).

Now, she was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of jogging shorts that were just tight enough to remind him how this whole ordeal started.

At forty-two, she moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

It was one of the first things he'd noticed about her six months ago.

"Hey there, stranger," she said, smoothing the duvet. "I was starting to think you'd climbed out the bathroom window."

"And miss saying goodbye? Never." He crossed the room and kissed her, meaning it to be quick but lingering when she pulled him closer. Her perfume—something light and expensive—filled his senses. "But I really do need to go."

"Same time next week?" Her fingers traced the length of his tie, a gesture that six months ago would have seemed practiced and calculated. Now he knew it was just Jill being Jill—tactile, present, unapologetically sensual.

"Wouldn't miss it." He caught her hand, squeezed it once. "Though I might need to get in more cardio. You wore me out tonight."

She laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "There's plenty more where that came from, old man." She picked up her shirt from where it had landed near the dresser. "Though I have to say, for someone who claims to be worn out, you certainly didn't show it."

The first time they'd met had been nothing like this—all business and bureaucracy in the sterile conference room at City Hall.

He'd been there representing his company's interests in upgrading the city's emergency broadcast system.

She'd been the deputy director of emergency services, full of pointed questions and skepticism about his proposal.

He'd found her intensity attractive even then, though he'd buried the thought.

It wasn't until their third meeting, when they'd ended up working late going over technical specifications, that something shifted.

She'd mentioned her recent divorce, casual and matter-of-fact.

He'd found himself talking about the growing distance in his own marriage—things he hadn't even admitted to himself.

They'd ended up in an unused conference room, and it had been the most erotically charged night of Thomas's life.

One coffee led to another, then a secret dinner, then this—a weekly get-together at Jill’s house.

Thomas checked his phone as he made his way through the house.

7:34 PM. Perfect timing. Traffic would be light enough that his story about working late would hold up.

Ellie, his wife, would be finished with dinner, probably settled in with her iPad and that mystery series she'd been binging lately.

She barely looked up when he came home these days.

The guilt surfaced then, as it always did during these moments of transition.

Ellie deserved better. Twenty-three years of marriage, and this was how he repaid her loyalty.

But the guilt wasn't enough—not nearly enough to make him end things with Jill.

The truth was, he felt more alive in these stolen hours than he had in years.

He had his story straight: last-minute crisis with the Singapore team, endless Zoom calls, the usual alibi. It wasn't even really a lie. There had been issues with Singapore, just not today. The best lies, he'd learned, were built on foundations of truth.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the back door—his usual exit route, chosen because it opened onto an unlit side street rather than the well-lit main road.

Jill's neighborhood was upscale enough to feel safe but not so exclusive that his BMW stood out among the other luxury vehicles. Still, habits of discretion died hard.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Jill call from upstairs: "Drive safe!"

The warmth in her voice followed him out into the January night.

The cold hit him immediately, shocking after the warmth of the house.

His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he fished his keys from his pocket.

He was thinking about dinner, how he really didn’t deserve to have one waiting for him when he arrived home.

He wondered how much long this thing with Jill could last. Would they be able—

The impact came from behind, explosive and brutal.

Something hard crashed into the back of his head, sending him stumbling forward.

His keys clattered to the wooden surface of the back porch.

Before he could turn, before he could shout, before he could even process what was happening, a second blow caught him in the temple.

He went down hard, his cheek scraping against the rough concrete of the path.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard footsteps—deliberate, unhurried.

A shadow fell across him. Thomas tried to roll over to see his attacker, to call for help.

But his body wouldn't respond, and the darkness was already closing in.

His last coherent thought wasn't of Ellie, or even of Jill. It was who would be able to fill his shoes on the Singapore job if anything happened to him.

Then the third blow fell, and Thomas Whitman thought nothing at all.