Chapter 3

Maggie talked the entire way to her building. She had a gift for it — a natural, generous warmth that would have been entirely likeable under any other circumstances.

"The NSA survivor benefits have been such a blessing," she was saying. "Healthcare, school priority, the monthly support — Daniel always says Claire would have wanted her niece and nephew taken care of."

Her niece and nephew.

The dependent allowance assigned to my personnel file covered exactly two children.

That was why. That was the specific, calculated reason he had spent six years explaining to me why responsible, educated people don't rush into parenthood. Because the quota was full. Because his other children were already using it.

"When was your son born?" I asked.

"November third. Daniel arranged everything — a private hospital, the best OB in the city. He was so wonderful about all of it."

November third.

The day my father died.

The ER doctor had told me afterward: if he'd gotten there forty minutes earlier, they could have saved him. A forty-minute window. I had called Daniel seventeen times that afternoon. Seventeen. I still had the call log.

He had wept at the funeral. Fallen to his knees in the parking lot and hit himself across the face with an open hand, sobbing so hard that people around him looked frightened. I had held him and told him it wasn't his fault. That he hadn't known how serious it was.

He'd been in a private hospital suite, watching his son come into the world.

"The age gap between them is funny," Maggie continued, adjusting the baby on her hip. "Almost seven years. They fight constantly." She laughed. "If you ever have kids, put them closer together."

I already knew everything I needed to know.

Maggie gestured ahead. "Here we are."

Not an apartment. A full townhouse on a quiet, tree-lined street, with a real front door and window boxes. The kind of place that costs four times what Daniel's university salary could cover.

Inside: high ceilings, warm light, a vase of white tulips on the dining table, a gallery wall of family photographs, every sharp corner cushioned with silicone bumpers for the baby. It smelled like a candle that cost forty dollars.

"Daniel did all of this," Maggie said. "He says a home should feel like one."

Daniel, who had never once done the dishes in the apartment we shared. Who left his clothes on the bathroom floor and waited for me to pick them up. Who watched television while I scrubbed the kitchen on my four-day home leave visits, because those were the only days anyone cleaned anything.

"It's beautiful," I said. "He must be doing well. Did he buy this place?"

"Six years ago." She poured water for both of us. "I was new to the city when we met. He set me up — the flower shop, this house. He said he wanted me to feel secure."

Daniel's family had nothing when we married. Our apartment was my parents' property. His salary was modest and I had seen every bank statement.

The front door opened.

A man stepped in — mid-sixties, heavyset, with the slow, territorial movements of someone who considered this his ground.

He looked at me with immediate suspicion.

"Who's this?"

Maggie introduced me brightly: a government contact, here about Daniel's research.

The man — her father, I gathered — settled into his armchair with the satisfaction of a man claiming a throne.

"Daniel's like a real son to me," he said. "The government recognizing his work — that makes me proud. Stay for dinner. I'll cook."

Maggie's phone rang. She answered on speaker, without thinking.

Daniel's voice filled the room.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'll be late — probably after midnight. I know you've been craving that bakery on Elm Street, so I grabbed you a box on my way. Sorry to keep you waiting again."

Maggie's whole face lit up.

The call ended.

My own phone buzzed.

A text from Daniel:

*Happy almost-New Year. Sorry I can't be there this holiday — you know how it is. Take care of yourself at the base. I'll check on Mom. Come home soon. You work so hard. I love you.*

I read it twice.

Then I opened my contacts and called my unit's legal officer.

"I need a full records pull," I said, keeping my voice very even. "Property, dependents, financials. And get me an attorney. My husband is committing adultery."