The alarm went off at five-twenty in the morning, and for one still moment I lay in the dark and thought about all the more satisfying things I could do instead of what I was about to do.
I thought about them briefly, with real affection, and then I got up.
Mark was asleep beside me, which was deliberate. I had decided the night before not to tell him. This is not because my husband is unsupportive. Mark is deeply supportive, in the way of a man who genuinely believes that most conflicts between neighbors can be resolved by getting everyone together for a calm chat, which is a lovely quality and also the reason I hadn’t mentioned the plan.
I had already had six calm chats.
The seventh one was not going to be with Denise.
I pulled on yesterday’s clothes in the dark and went downstairs to the kitchen, where I opened my phone and pulled up the photographs. I had been taking them every morning for twenty-two days. Not aggressively, not dramatically, not even particularly early on most mornings. I would come downstairs, see Denise’s silver Vauxhall Corsa sitting across the end of my driveway with the tranquil confidence of a vehicle that had been told it was welcome there, and I would take a photograph. Timestamp visible. License plate visible. Driveway entrance visible. Then I would put the kettle on and try to figure out how I was getting two boys to school.
