The Safe

The Safe

“Just don’t touch it, Candace.”

I stare at him, expressionless.

The pitch of his voice, the tremor of his hands, the way he just refused to meet my eyes.

Where was my husband?

I don’t say a word, but he reads me like a book.

“Sorry, honey. Sorry – It’s just… “

He sighs, puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out again. “I just need you to stay out of this. Promise me. Please.”

This time, he looks at me for five short seconds, but I’m the one who looks away first.

“Mhmm.” It comes out softly.

I can see the relief in his eyes as he takes my face in his hands and kisses my forehead twice.

“Thank you, Candace. I knew I could trust you.”

Then, as if none of this had just happened, he claps his hands loudly. “Okay, now I need to go before they fire me from my own company.”

He laughs like it’s funny, grabs his keys, and leaves me alone in his study.

I don’t move even after I hear the car pull out of the driveway, and even after I’m sure he would be halfway to the office already.

I just sit there staring at the third shelf of his bookcase, in the left corner.

That was where the safe was.

A small metal box, space grey, and as conspicuous as all the business trophies that sat on the top shelf.

There, a secret, in plain sight.

If there were a museum of things James kept from me, the museum would only have that one thing.

I suppose that was why it bothered me so much.

Had there been hundreds of secrets, I would be used to it by now.

Don’t touch the safe? No problem! I’ll be in the kitchen perfecting my recipe for chicken pot pie.

But no, there was just this one, six years into our marriage.

What was so different?

I’ve been sitting for so long, my right leg seizes from a cramp, but I don’t let it stop me from hobbling over to the bookcase and taking the safe in my hands.

Even with central heating – the best money could get – the safe is as cold as ice, like it’d been left out in the snow and brought in only moments ago.

In my hands, it feels no heavier than it would if it were completely empty.

A cheque? I quickly rule out anything money-related.

James had given me a credit card after our 6-month anniversary, and price was never ever a factor.

Documents, maybe?

Photographs?

I shiver, and under my thick red sweater dress, I feel goosebumps cover every inch of my skin. I don’t know whether it’s the cold of the safe or the fact that James was suddenly keeping secrets.

My mother – married three times, now ‘happily divorced’ – warned that secrets were the beginning of the end of a marriage.

She was always the one with the secrets.

I shiver again, this time at the thought of losing this lifestyle I’d grown so used to. The house, the trips, the cars, the money.

And honestly, genuinely, at the thought of losing James.

He was a good husband.

Was I better off just trusting him?

I close my eyes and go back to that unforgettable conversation.

He had seemed afraid, not guilty.

Not really.

And his forehead kisses were just as warm and loving as they always were… but his hands still trembled against my face.

Was that fear? Or guilt?

Both?

I considered the fact that he had actually told me that there was a secret and where this secret was, which gave me some comfort.

But then, it was still a secret, and that meant I really had no comfort at all.

I open my eyes, put the safe back in its place and walk away.

…

In my mind, “Mhmm” could mean a lot of things.

It was a yes sometimes, sometimes an okay, and sometimes it was just a sound you made when someone asked you to promise not to touch something in your own house, and you were too stunned to ask them, “Why? What’s going on, James? Why is there suddenly something you don’t want me to know?”

This is what I think about as I sit up next to my sleeping husband, slip on my fuzzy slippers, and make my way to the study.

I didn’t promise not to touch the safe.

I only said “Mhmm”.

A certified insomniac, I knew my way around our house at night like the back of my hand.

Seventeen steps down to the second floor, mind the potted Nongke orchid on the left, pass the half-bathroom, then ten steps until you get to the study.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob and hold my breath, listening for signs of James.

He was light-footed – I’d hear the front door close, but I’d never hear him walking into the house.

I never heard him coming down the stairs to show me something on his phone.

I never heard him sneaking up behind me at the kitchen sink, wrapping one arm around my waist as a poor distraction for him slipping his dirty plate into the soapy water.

I wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he had followed me down the stairs. What would I say if he caught me?

I stand like a statue, but for all my listening, all I can hear is my heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I let myself breathe again when I remember that James was conveniently also a heavy sleeper. I could watch late-night TV shows on our bed at 3 am, laugh until my stomach hurt, and he wouldn’t stir.

This fact gives me the courage to turn the now sweaty doorknob and push the door open.

I’m smart enough not to flick on the lights, so I stumble towards the big window and pull back the curtains.

Outside, the garden is covered with fresh snow. Under the white moonlight, it looks deceivingly warm and inviting, like a big, fuzzy, white blanket.

But I know better. I haven’t been able to go out there for weeks.

When James would take a break from work, he’d stand and look out of that window with his hands behind his back.

In the warmer months, I’d often be sitting in the gazebo with a book, and he’d wave to me and smile, then do something ridiculous to make me laugh.

It didn’t matter if he’d told me work had been stressful, or work had been good, or work had been okay.

He did it every time.

James loved me.

He loved me!

I knew it with every fibre of my being.

So, why couldn’t I just trust him?

I turn towards the bookshelf, the safe now glistening in the moonlight as if luring me in.

Why couldn’t I just trust him?

When I place the safe on James’ 120-inch burnished oak desk, it strikes me how small it looks in comparison.

Tiny, almost.

By appearance only, seemingly insignificant.

How could something so unseemly be the cause of my losing trust in my husband? How could it cause him to lose trust in me?

It didn’t make sense.

I lower myself onto James' chair and consider my alternatives.

I could climb back into bed and ignore this until I couldn’t any longer.

A few weeks, maybe. Maybe longer if I could distract myself more with cooking.

Or maybe James and I could just pretend that there was no secret.

Perhaps nothing would have to change.

But the curiosity and the fear gnaw at me relentlessly, and I find myself trying various combinations on the safe, instead of putting it back on the shelf and walking away like my heart is telling me to do.

I turn the dial to 12, then to 2, then to 19 – our anniversary – but I know it’s surely too obvious a combination.

But… the safe clicks open.

Immediately, the guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach.

Did James not think I’d guess that?

Or did he really just believe that I gave my word and wouldn’t go poking around the very thing he told me not to touch?

It occurs to me then that this didn’t even have to be something bad.

What if this was just a big surprise I was about to ruin? Diamond earrings? Flight tickets to visit Greece again? Maybe keys for a new car?

Why was my first assumption that this was something bad?

I push the safe away.

But then… why was he acting so strange?

I pull it closer.

Was it all an act so I’d be extra surprised?

I think back to my 30th when James had convinced me that an important meeting with an investor meant we would have to celebrate my birthday the next day.

But that same night, I came home to a hundred roses on the counter, two new Birkin bags, and James waiting for me in the dining room, for dinner made by a private chef.

That was my James.

But even as I try to think of more positive scenarios, my body is operating on autopilot.

I watch my hands tug the safe door open, and papers spill onto the desk, some flying onto the floor.

Index cards, documents, photos, receipts. More than I can count.

In that moment, the moon slips partially behind a cloud, but the lingering rays are enough to see the headings on the documents, the people in the photos, and the words I didn’t want to read.

My heart thumps impossibly louder in my chest, the sound booming against my eardrums.

I try to steady my trembling hands, but I'm suddenly aware of everything else: the carpet under my feet, the leather of the chair sticking to my thighs, my hair brushing over my shoulders.

I can’t remember how.

To.

Breathe.

I hear the study door push open, but I don’t hear James walking in.

“I can explain,” I hear him say softly, in that same pitch from earlier.

I know now that it’s guilt, not fear.

He’s right behind me now, I can tell, and I get goosebumps when he puts his hand on my shoulder.

But I don’t turn, or move or say a word. I don’t pull away or scream or throw up like I really want to.

I just sit and stare, just like I’d done this morning.

What was there to explain?

Everything was right there in front of me.

Right there in my shaking hands.

Right there, as my tears roll furiously down my face, dripping all over the cold, hard, undeniable evidence.