May 16, 1944

“What has gotten into you, Gigi?” John asks me, clearly affronted by the way he glowers at me while tugging at his tie, loosening the black-andred-striped fabric.

He stares at me as if I’m a stranger.

He just finished his supper and is undressing before our armoire. Usually, I eat alongside him and Sera, but I excused myself, claiming that I didn’t feel well, and left my husband and daughter alone at the dinner table.

Something I’ve only done when I was truly ill—too weak to put on my red lipstick.

I crawled into bed in my nightgown and cracked open my leatherbound book of Edgar Allan Poe poems. However, the evidence that I’m not as unwell as I’d like him to believe is smeared across my lips now.

I stare at the pages, the words to “The Raven” blurring in my unfocused vision.

I’d always been hopelessly called to horror and mystery novels as a young girl, obsessing over Edgar, Mary Shelley, H. P. Lovecraft, and many others. They are the reason I became enraptured with the gothic style. My mother hated that I read them, but she finally gave in when I became a much more agreeable child with one of their books in my hand.

But even Edgar can’t save me from my husband tonight.

“Is it because I forgot your birthday yesterday? I told you I’m sorry about that, and we’ll celebrate soon.”

Unlike yesterday, he didn’t come home drunk tonight, so his perception is sharper than it has been lately. He must see the secrets I’m storing inside beginning to leak through my pores.

“No. It’s nothing,” I deny, giving him an incredulous stare.

Though it did hurt that I turned thirty-five and he didn’t say a word once he finally came home. Sera took the day off school yesterday, and we spent the day together dancing to the radio, baking cookies, playing board games, and then camping out in the glass room.

John didn’t come home until nearly ten at night and was completely sauced when he did. While our daughter and I celebrated my birthday, he stayed out drinking and gambling all night, and frankly, I was okay with that. I’d take his absence over his inebriated presence any day.

The only birthday that mattered to me was Sera’s, anyway. Thankfully, that day flew by without a hitch. John was a little sauced, but he did nothing to embarrass Sera or me, so I refrained from lecturing him about it.

“I just feel a little under the weather today.”

Lies.

I never used to lie to my husband. To anyone, for that matter. My mother would’ve whipped me silly had I ever dared tell a lie to her. Telling the truth has been ingrained in me since I was a child.

And now, look at me.

This morning, he woke me up with an apology and a peck on the forehead. Fresh carnations awaited on the kitchen island, along with a new dress.

Then he was off to work again while Sera left for school. He promised he’d come home on time, which he did. But his playing poker and getting drunk on my birthday wasn’t the only reason I felt unsettled today.

No. Earlier, the strange man entered my home again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s visited now. Many days, he stays outside, watching me from afar. Other days . . . he likes to see me up close.

Admittedly, I’ve long since grown desperate to know his name. So, I begged him to tell me, even offered to get on my knees if he’d only whisper it in my ear. And when that didn’t work, I offered him a kiss. Even a touch, of my breasts or . . . or between my legs.

He smiled, yet my scandalous offerings were to no avail.

He brushed his fingers along my cheek, tucking a black curl behind my ear and leaving me a shivering mess in the wake of his electric touch.

The things I was willing to do just to hear his name . . .

Guilt eats at me, tearing apart my weary soul. The shame I feel is so heavy, and there are many moments where I gaze at my husband and ask myself how I could ever even think to stray.

It’s been two months now, and still I keep my visitor a secret from my husband. Why? I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

I love my husband. I’ve loved him for years. Except, I don’t know if I’m in love with him anymore. Or if I ever was.

John continues to stare at me, suspicion inked into his irises. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

The truth is on the tip of my tongue, teasing the air between us.

But then he grabs a whiskey bottle left stranded on the dresser from a previous night, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swig while he waits for my answer.

The truth dies, and I swallow it back down, the words burning a path down my throat as if I had been the one to drink the whiskey.

“No. There’s nothing to say,” I whisper.

Who he is now—I no longer recognize him.

And how could I tell my darkest secret to a complete stranger?