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“No,” I said. “I can manage it.”

Garvin looked slightly hurt. He slid two key cards across the counter. The desk clerk next to him, a young woman who looked barely old enough to drive, perked up when Garvin referred to me by my married name.

“Mina Manning?” she asked. Her nametag read Laney.

“Yes,” I said.

“We have a package that was dropped off for you about an hour ago. I’ll get it.”

A package? I hadn’t told anyone my plans to check in. Was someone following me? Was it Lock? Eli said he was missing meetings and failing to return calls. Paranoia took its grip on me. I looked over my shoulder, but there were no other guests in the lobby but me.

A moment later, Laney returned with a thick, manila envelope with just my first name written on it.

“Where did this come from?” I asked, handling it. It contained something thick, hard, and rectangular.

“I didn’t see who delivered it,” Laney said. “It came before I started my shift. I can check into it if you’d like.”

“Thank you.”

The events of the day started to hit me. I felt boneless as I took the elevator to the top floor and stepped off. Checking my phone again, I pulled a charger out of my bag and plugged it into the wall by the bed.

Lock had stopped texting and calling me. Strange, but also a relief. I went out into the sitting room and plopped down on a chaise lounge. I had a nice view of Lake Michigan from the glass walls on two sides of the room. This was a corner suite.

Mina

My name was written with a black marker, underlined, and in flourishing cursive. I slid a nail under the flap and tore it open. A stack of photographs spilled out.

The top picture made me freeze. It was Lock. A full-frontal shot. He was nude.

I grabbed the rest of the photos and flipped through them, letting each one fall to my lap.

Lock’s bare backside, his tattoo clearly visible. Lock in profile, giving a devilish smirk to the camera. He sat on the edge of a bed in a room I didn’t recognize. He was nude in every photo.

A shot of him standing in front of a naked woman. Her back was to the camera. He had his arms around her, nuzzling her neck. Another photo… this one even more lurid. Lock’s bare backside. He was positioned between the naked woman’s legs. She had them wrapped around his waist.

Each photo was more pornographic than the next. They were all over each other. Lock. My Lock. I couldn’t see her face. She was blonde. It was the same room. Yellow walls. Hardwood floor. A purple overstuffed chair in the corner. Sometimes, he sat in that chair as she knelt before him. Kissing. Screwing. Doing things to him.

I slowly flipped through every single photo, unable to look away. Unable to stop. Until I reached the last one. Different from the rest, it was a photograph of an index card lying on wooden floorboards. Written with the same black marker, in similar handwriting as the outside of the envelope, it read:

Do you get it now? Lock is lying to you.

THIRTY-TWO

A storm blew through Lasalle Harbor with enough force to rattle the stop signs. Water crashed over the seawall at Bayview Pier.

I couldn’t go home. I didn’t want to be at the hotel. Someone had figured out my plans to check in. Was I being followed? Had Lock monitored my credit card activity? I sat in the car, rain pelting my windshield. The envelope with the photographs lay unopened on my lap. I’d flipped through the images at least a dozen times after leaving my hotel room. For three hours, I drove aimlessly.

The lighthouse loomed before me; its painted red tower could be seen for miles. A beacon in the storm. It was here Lock proposed to me on a cloudless, moonlit night two years ago today. I’d forgotten that part. Lock was usually the one to remind me. I married him less than a month later at the courthouse. Elena Clarke performed the brief ceremony. I pledged to spend the rest of my life with him. Forsaking all others.

Tonight, that woman felt like a stranger to me. As if a spell had been lifted. Every doubt I had over the last few months. At every turn, Lock had gaslighted me. Told me I was catastrophizing. And I let him. I had Corrine’s letter to Matt Woodson in my hands! I wanted so badly to believe it was a lie. That I could trust Lock.

He’d made me question myself. Ignore my own instincts. Even put my career in jeopardy, getting me to agree not to go to Roy Dennison right away.

LOCK IS LYING TO YOU.

He was good at it. He gave me open access to his phone, his computer, and what I thought was his soul. For two years, he taught me to trust him. Now, I knew that misplaced trust was what allowed me to explain away everything.

I opened the envelope and let the obscene photos fall out. I picked one up that showed a close-up of Lock’s face, his eyes closed in ecstasy as another woman knelt before him. He had his fingers threaded through her hair.