Enzo is cheating on me.

It’s all I can think about as I drive home from work, even though I’m making excellent time on the Long Island Expressway (for a change). It’s been two nights since Enzo snuck out in the middle of the night. Two nights since he came home stinking of what I’m pretty sure was Suzette’s perfume. And I can’t seem to get it out of my head.

Enzo is acting like everything is fine. He’s sticking with his story about the random drive in the middle of the night. He hasn’t tearfully confessed to a night of passion with Suzette. And I haven’t smelled her perfume on him again.

I keep trying to come up with an innocent explanation, but I can’t. When Enzo and I went to bed that night, he did not smell like perfume. He obviously got up during the night, went somewhere with her in his car and was gone until three in the morning, and then he came home and pretended like nothing had happened.

When I get home, Enzo’s truck is parked in front of the house. Well, at least he’s home now. Maybe I should talk to him about this. Even if there isn’t an innocent explanation, maybe it’s better to just get it out in the open. I never wanted to be the kind of wife who has to pretend like she’s clueless about her husband messing around behind her back.

When I get inside, the kids’ shoes are strewn about near the front door—they are obviously upstairs. But I don’t see Enzo’s boots.

So his car is parked outside yet he’s not home. He must be with Suzette.

I grit my teeth. I am so sick of this woman. I am so sick of Enzo running over to her house to work in her backyard. I had to watch my husband rescue her from the ocean when she was probably never even drowning in the first place. I bet she made the whole thing up. After all, who gets pulled into the water by seaweed?

I’m done being the good neighbor. I’m going to tell that woman what I think of her once and for all. And then I’m bringing my husband home with me.

I don’t bother to take my own shoes off. I slam the front door to our house as I walk outside and tromp across both of our freshly cut lawns to get to 12 Locust Street. I press my thumb into the doorbell, letting it ring for far longer than I need to.

No answer.

I press it again for the second time with the same result. It’s quiet inside the house. No footsteps coming to answer—nothing. And I don’t hear the sounds of Enzo’s equipment in the backyard.

What if they don’t hear the doorbell because they’re busy? What if they are upstairs in Suzette’s bedroom and they’re

Oh God, I don’t want to think about it.

On a whim, I put my hand on the doorknob. I didn’t expect it to turn, but it does. I turn the knob all the way to the right and lean against the door to push it open.

I step into the foyer of the Lowells’ large house. It seems quiet. I don’t hear any beds a-rockin’ upstairs, that’s for sure.

“Suzette?” I call out. And then in a low growl, “Enzo?” Again, no answer.

I walk through the foyer. Everything is still quiet. It truly doesn’t sound like there is anyone home. But when I get into the living room, I notice something else. It’s a distinctive odor. One that I have become very familiar with.

It’s the stench of blood.

Why does this house smell like blood? And it’s not faint. The house reeks of it. Whereas the last time I was here, it smelled like lilacs or something.

“Suzette?” I call out, and this time, there’s a tremor in my voice.

I lower my eyes and that’s when I see it, around the corner of the stairwell. A foot sticking out, attached to a lifeless body on the ground. A pair of dead eyes stare up at the ceiling, and a pool of blood spreads slowly across the living room floor. I recognize what I’m looking at immediately, and it takes everything I have not to collapse onto the floor.

It’s Jonathan Lowell.

And someone’s slit his throat.