Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, filled with strange and disturbing visions. I dreamed of John, but with a different face. He spoke to me, but his words were incomprehensible, as if in a foreign language.
And nearby, there was always that woman, Sarah, holding a child, looking at me with a sad smile. I woke up with my alarm clock at six in the morning. I felt a heavy weight on my head after a sleepless night, but my determination hadn’t abandoned me.
I quickly got ready, called a taxi, and went to the station. The train to Boston left at 7:30. I sat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Through the window, the outskirts of the city could be seen, replaced by fields and forests, but I paid little attention to them. My thoughts were occupied with the impending meeting with Sarah.
What would I say to her? How would I explain my appearance? And most importantly, how would she react to learning that her husband was married to another woman? I imagined myself in her place. How would I react if a stranger showed up at my door, claiming to be my husband’s wife? She probably wouldn’t believe it.
She would think it was a ridiculous joke or a mistake. I needed proof. Something to convince Sarah of the truth of my words.
I took out my phone and looked at my photos with John. Here’s our wedding photo. We’re under a flower arch, happy and in love.
Here’s a photo from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year’s. John, wearing a silly Santa hat, hugging me by the shoulders.
These photos should convince Sarah I’m not a fantasist. But are they enough? Maybe I should take the marriage certificate? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. Photos are enough.
Also, I had the USB drive with the documents I found in the flowerpot. If necessary, I’ll show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston just in time.
10:25 a.m. I stepped out onto the noisy platform of the central station and immersed myself in the bustle of the big city. I’d never been to this city before, and in another situation, I would have been impressed by the magnitude and energy of the metropolis.
But I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing anymore. I was focused on my goal. I called a taxi and gave him the address.
15, Academic Street. The driver nodded and drove me through the city. The trip took about an hour due to traffic, and during that time I tried to gather my thoughts and prepare for the upcoming conversation.
But the closer we got to our destination, the more excited I became. What if he wasn’t home? What if that same guy, David, opened the door for me? What would I say? Or worse, what if I ran into John there? After all, maybe he wasn’t on a business trip, as he’d told me, but here with his other family. Thinking about that warmed me up…
I imagined myself opening the door and seeing John sitting at the table with Sarah and David. A happy family idyll in which there was no place for me. How would I react? What would I say? But it was too late to back out.
The taxi was already approaching the indicated address. A typical Boston skyscraper in a residential area. I paid the driver and got out of the car.
For a moment, I was overcome with the desire to turn around and leave, forget all this, return to my normal life. But I realized that the old life would no longer exist. Too much had changed in the last 24 hours.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and walked in. Apartment 42 was on the seventh floor. I took the elevator up, feeling my heart pounding every second.
Here is the right door. An ordinary door, behind which my husband’s life was hidden. I raised my hand and pressed the doorbell resolutely.
Several long seconds passed. No movement, no sound. I pressed it again, more insistently.
And again, silence. It seemed no one was home. I looked around, not knowing what to do.
Wait? But how long? An hour or two, all day? What if no one shows up? I had no other address to find Sarah. And then the door of the neighboring apartment opened a crack, and an older woman with a curious look appeared through the gap. “Do you live with the Millers?” she asked, looking at me appraisingly.
“Yes, with Sarah,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound confident. “They’re not home,” the neighbor reported. “They’ve been at the cabin all weekend.”
They’ll only be back on Monday. Today was Saturday. So I’d have to wait two days.
“And who are you to them?” the neighbor asked curiously. I was confused for a moment. Who was I to them? No one.
A stranger interfering in someone else’s life. But I couldn’t tell the truth, of course. I’m Sarah’s colleague, so I improvised as I went along.
I need to give her important documents. “Do you know where her house is?” the neighbor asked, narrowing her eyes, obviously doubting the veracity of my words. But then, apparently, she decided there was nothing criminal about my question.
“Somewhere in rural Massachusetts, I think, in the Springfield district,” she replied. “I can’t say for sure.” She wasn’t interested. “But if you want, I can give you her cell phone.”
I have it just in case. “That would be a great help,” I replied gratefully. The neighbor disappeared into the apartment and returned a minute later with a piece of paper with the phone number written on it.
“Here, take it,” she said, handing me the article. “I hope it’s nothing urgent.” “No, nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” I assured her.
“Thank you for your help.” The old woman nodded and closed the door, and I stood on the landing, a piece of paper in my hand. Now I had a way to contact Sarah directly.
But was it worth calling her? What would I say over the phone? Such news doesn’t come from a distance. I went downstairs and left the entrance. The day was warm and sunny, a typical summer day.
People around me were hurrying, cars were making noise, children were playing. Normal, everyday life was a stark contrast to the chaos in my soul. I found the nearest cafe and went in to have a snack and think about what to do.
I ordered a salad and tea, took out my phone, and looked at the number. Should I call or not? I could simply say I’m calling for work, introduce myself as a colleague, like I did to the neighbor. And then, during the conversation, find out exactly where the cabin is and go there.
But wouldn’t that look strange and suspicious? While I was thinking, my order arrived. I chewed the salad mechanically, barely tasting it, and continued to weigh the pros and cons. The decision was unexpected.
I’ll call John right now. I’ll tell him I know about his second family and ask for an explanation.
After all, he was the main culprit in this whole situation, so why not start sorting things out with him? I dialed my husband’s number, preparing for a difficult conversation. But after several beeps, it went to voicemail. John wasn’t available.
Perhaps he was in a meeting, on the subway, or simply didn’t want to answer calls. In any case, this path turned out to be a dead end. I went back to the original plan.
I needed to find a way to see Sarah in person. And if that meant going to the country house in Springfield, then so be it. I opened the map on my phone and looked up where Springfield was.
An hour’s drive from Boston. Not far. But the problem was, I didn’t know the exact address.
Springfield. Not the most accurate location for searches. I looked again at the written phone number.
Maybe I should call after all? What do I have to lose? Determined, I dialed the number. My heart was beating so loudly it seemed every customer in the café could hear it. After several beeps, a female voice came through.
Hello? It was the same voice I’d heard on the video on the flash drive. The voice of my husband’s wife, much longer than mine. “Hello, Sarah,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “And who is this?” I hesitated for a moment. How should I introduce myself? Under what pretext should I make an appointment? “My name is Laura,” I said, without revealing my real name.
I.
