Chapter 5

"Hi there. I'm Chloe."

I heard that voice again three days later.

I had gone back to the apartment to get the last of my things from the safe—my "Observation Journal".

When I pushed the door open, I froze.

The safe was open. It was empty.

The password was my birthday, which anyone could guess if Ethan had told them.

I called him immediately.

"Did you take the journal?"

"Oh," his tone was casual, as if discussing a piece of office stationery. "Chloe took an illustration project about depression and needed some inspiration. I let her borrow it for a couple of days. Your sketches are in there, right? She'll return it once she's done."

I nearly dropped the phone.

"That is my property."

"We've been married for four years. What's yours is mine. I just lent it out, I didn't sell it. Why are you overreacting?"

His name was still flashing on my screen. I could hear someone giggling in the background—a light, youthful female voice.

"Where does she live?"

"You don't need to go there—"

"Address."

He sighed, annoyed.

"Apartment 2103, Oakwood Heights. Don't cause a scene."

I hung up and took a cab straight there.

Her apartment door wasn't fully closed.

When I pushed it open, the scent of lavender incense filled the air.

Chloe was sitting at a small desk, her back to the door. On the desk lay my journal—or what was left of it.

She was cutting it.

Page by page, she was using an X-Acto knife to slice along the borders of my illustrations, separating my drawings from the written entries.

The cut-out sketches were lined up next to a scanner; seven or eight had already been scanned.

The desk was littered with paper scraps. The shredded journal entries—the words I had written to Ethan back then—lay in pieces. "Ate half a bowl of oatmeal today." "He smiled for the first time." "I'll wait for you to get better." My messy handwriting had been sliced into jagged fragments.

Something crunched under my shoe.

It was a tiny scrap of an illustration she had trimmed off and thrown on the floor. It had shoe prints on it. It was a sketch of our old cat.

"What are you doing?"

She spun around.

There was no panic on her face. Instead, she offered a polite, sugary smile.

"Oh, Hazel! You're here. I'm just organizing some references. Ethan said I could use these drawings for inspiration... They're really good, no wonder he kept them."

"These are my private sketches," I walked over. "Give them back."

"But Ethan said I could—"

I reached for the remaining uncut portion of the journal. About half was left.

She slammed her hand down on it.

"Hazel, don't be like this. I'll give them back as soon as I'm done scanning."

"Let go."

"It's rude to grab things. Ethan gave me permission—"

I pulled hard.

She didn't let go. Instead, she stood up, pinning the journal down with one hand, while her other hand—

Something flashed.

It wasn't the X-Acto knife. It was a pair of heavy sewing shears.

She must have grabbed them as she stood up. Or maybe it wasn't an accident.

I didn't let go. Neither did she.

During the struggle, her grip slipped, and the sharp tip of the shears sliced across the back of my right hand.

It wasn't a superficial scratch.

It split open.

The sensation of skin tearing was slow. First came a cold numbness, then the searing pain. The blood pooled faster than the pain could register.

I looked down. A deep, dark gash ran from my thumb joint to the base of my pinky. The flesh was pale at the edges, and thick drops of blood began to drip, splattering onto the open page of the journal—right over a sketch of Ethan cooking in the kitchen.

"Oh my god!" Chloe screamed, stepping back, dropping the shears onto the floor.

"You... you're bleeding! Don't you dare blame me, you're the one who tried to grab it—"

I couldn't close my right hand anymore. My fingers wouldn't bend.

Using my left hand, I grasped the blood-stained journal and the loose sketches she hadn't scanned yet, clutching them to my chest.

As I reached the door, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Ethan had arrived.

He took in the scene—the shredded paper, the overturned chair, Chloe sobbing in the corner.

Then he walked forward. But not toward me.

He shielded Chloe behind him. He glared at me, his eyes wild and bloodshot, like an enraged animal.

"Hazel, have you lost your mind? Breaking into someone's apartment to steal?"

"Someone's?"

"Look at how terrified Chloe is—"

"Ethan," I lifted my right hand to show him. Blood was soaking into my sleeve, but my fingertips were dripping red, staining the floor. "Look closer."

He froze for a second. His gaze lingered on my hand.

Then he looked back at Chloe's tear-stained face.

"...You terrified her. What do you expect me to say? It's just a cut. Go to the hospital and get it bandaged. Did you really have to make such a scene?"

It wasn't just a cut.

The wound was so deep I could feel the numb ache where the blade had scraped the bone.

I was an artist. This was my right hand.

My art teacher used to tell me, "Your right hand is your livelihood. Keep it as safe as your eyes."

"I called the police," I said. "They're on their way."

His face paled.

"What did you say?"

"I called them ten minutes ago. Assault, and attempted grand theft—my work is on her computer, the scans are all there."

Chloe broke down behind him. "Ethan, I didn't steal anything! You told me I could take it! You said I could use it for reference—"

Ethan's jaw clenched.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Police department. Open up."

I walked out, clutching the bloody journal to my chest with my left hand. As I passed Ethan, he finally noticed my hand dripping blood.

Right onto his polished leather shoes.

The exact same pair that had crushed my sticky note the day before.