A noise. Footsteps, moving downstairs. Thomas, I think, prowling the house. I wonder what he’s been doing since the police left. Tending to household chores, cleaning up evidence? The police questions bother me. Just how likely is it for one woman to suffer three accidents in only six months? A woman without family or friends. A woman who, by all appearances, is solely dependent upon her husband. Though he tells me that’s my fault, my rules of engagement.

Is it? I honestly don’t know. Something about it sounds right, but why would I insist on such a thing? And what kind of man would truly leave everything, do anything, for a girl he’s barely met?

I feel there’s more here I should know, except the harder I try, the more the details slip away. I don’t find my memories welcoming. They don’t invite me closer. Instead, they whisper restlessly, Beware, beware, beware.

I understand that muscle memory is easier for me. Rote actions, things I do, versus things I think. By those terms, shouldn’t I be able to recall putting on a coat, grabbing car keys, before my late-night drive? Or what about climbing into the car or backing out of the driveway? I try, but my mind remains blank. I see only darkness, nothing else.

Which makes me think the police might be right—I’d already been drinking that night.

I consider scotch. Eighteen-year-old Glenlivet. Best of the best. I picture a crystal tumbler filled with liquid gold, feel the smooth taste warming my tongue. On cue, saliva glands water. There’s no doubt about it; I could use a drink.

Then something comes to me. An old memory.

Do you know the best place for a wife to hide something from her husband? Not her jewelry box; too obvious. Certainly not under the shared marital mattress. Or in a medicine cabinet, or in a cookie jar or stashed behind the turkey in the freezer.

No, there’s one place no self-respecting husband would ever search: his wife’s box of tampons, tucked beneath the bathroom sink.

More footsteps below. In my mind’s eye, I can follow Thomas’s progress to the rear of the house. A faint screech. The back door opening. A slight bang; back door falling shut. He’s left the house, headed toward his work shed. I know this without thinking.

The temptation is immediate and overwhelming.

I push back the butter-yellow quilt, rise to standing. Then—there’s no other word for it—I sneak across the hall to the guest bath.

A single sink, undermounted in earth-tone granite, topping a hickory cabinet. Next to it is the toilet, then to the far right the bathtub. My bathroom. I used it to shower without thinking first thing this morning. Moving on memory again; reach for the plate, don’t stop to think where the plate is. And sure enough, the top drawer had held my toothbrush, hairbrush, a quilted paisley bag filled with makeup.

Now I open the lower cabinet to discover a collection of bathroom cleaners, a blow dryer and, yes, a box of tampons.

I pull them out. The box rattles slightly; the tinkle of glass. And I know what I’ll find inside. As I remove the token six tampons lining the top. As I expose the collection of tiny scotch-filled bottles beneath. It turns out, I have my own hidden collection of nip-size Glenlivet.

The police have it wrong; my husband didn’t have to liquor me up Wednesday night, then pour me into my vehicle.

Apparently, I’m already that kind of drinker.

I’m already that kind of wife.

Now I consider the tiny bottles. Six in total. Enough for a bad afternoon or stressful night. I wonder, is it Thomas who drives me to drink? Is it Vero? Or am I my own worst enemy?

There is no muscle memory to call upon for these answers. Only a feeling that if I was smart enough to know why I did what I did, then I’d be smart enough not to do it.

I place the tampons back in the box. I place the box back in the cabinet. I don’t destroy the bottles or empty out the alcohol. I’m not that strong. But a new thought has come to me, and it’s compelling enough to allow me to walk away.

I know where a wife hides things from her husband. But where does a husband hide his secrets from his wife?

Now, while Thomas is in the work shed. I have to search. It’s desperately important.

I creep back into the hall, ears attuned for any sound from downstairs. But the house is settled, silent. I am alone. For now.

I start in the master bedroom, with its massive four-poster bed and oversize dark-wood furniture. His domain, not mine, and when hiding secrets, the first instinct is always to keep them close. I smooth a hand under the pile of pillows, then beneath the edge of the heavy, king-size mattress. I check under the bed but find nothing but dust bunnies, dirty carpet.

Next I hit the nightstand. I can tell which side of the bed belongs to Thomas, as it’s more rumpled, and sure enough the nightstand yields a pair of reading glasses, a small roll of antacids, and a collection of magazines: Guns & Ammo, Entertainment Weekly, National Geographic. To judge by the diversity, my husband is a regular Renaissance man.

But there is nothing sinister here; at least not his own collection of alcohol.

The bureau boasts a reading lamp, a framed picture of the two of us, and a leather box containing a vintage watch, thick gold chain and simple gold band. His wedding ring, I know without thinking. He doesn’t wear it anymore because his job involves tools. But he’d wanted a ring so I’d walked to the neighborhood pawnshop, picking out the cheapest band, which was already the most two poor kids could afford. He’d smiled when I slid it onto his finger. No, he’d beamed, his entire face lighting up.

Now I am yours, he’d said, and I remember my heart pounding in my chest, instinctively scared by that level of responsibility.

The ring has an inscription inside, a date: October 3, 1993. We’d been together barely a month. What were we thinking? From first date to forever in four weeks or less?

And did the fact that we were still together twenty-two years later mean we were a success? Or that simply after so many years, we didn’t know any better? Couldn’t dream any bigger?

It occurs to me that given the dates, I have been with this one man for more than half of my life.

As I search his bedroom for signs of deception.

The dresser yields nothing, so I move on to the walk-in closet, pausing from time to time to listen for footsteps. But the house remains still. Thomas’s job requires concentration, a focused unit of time to create an item from beginning to end. Maybe he’ll be out there the rest of the day, or even into the evening. He works a lot, I know without thinking. I spend much of my time alone. But it’s never bothered me. I prefer it that way.

The walk-in closet is surprisingly large and features a fancy organization system. Also cherrywood, with shelves and racks and built-in drawers, like something you’d see in a home magazine. Thomas installed it. One of his weekend-warrior projects. He did it to make me happy.

Because at least in the beginning, I’d lived in this room, too.

Sure enough, some of the clothes in the closet are mine. Dresses, nice slacks, fancier shirts. Not my everyday wardrobe; that I discovered in the guest room closet. But the overflow, clothes I don’t need to access regularly, has remained here. A sign we were working things out? Or I was just too lazy to move all of my belongings?

Thomas has rows of cargo pants, stacks of well-worn jeans, an impressive collection of long-sleeved flannel shirts. An overwhelmingly casual assortment of clothes, as befitting a man who spends his day in a work shed. I find three suits, one gray, one black, one navy blue. For funerals and weddings, I think, except if we have no friends, no families, what are we ever invited to?

I start with the drawers, searching each one. I discover socks, underwear, workout clothes, T-shirts, pajamas, pants and nothing else. Next I work my way through the small pile of shoes, mostly sneakers, hiking boots, the obligatory dress shoes, one in black, one in high-gloss brown, to go with the suits.