It started with the headlights.

Every evening around six, I'd hear Maya's car turn into the driveway. The engine would cut off. And then nothing. No door. No footsteps on the porch. Just the soft tick of cooling metal and the blue wash of the dashboard glowing through the kitchen window while I stirred a pot of something neither of us would taste.

Twenty minutes. I timed it once, then twice, then every night for a week until the number became a small stone I carried around in my chest. When she finally came inside she always smelled faintly of cold air and perfume, and she'd kiss my cheek the way you kiss an uncle you barely know.

"What were you doing out there?" I asked, keeping my voice light, like it was nothing.

"Just unwinding," she said. "I like the radio. It's quiet. You wouldn't understand."

But Maya hated talk radio. She'd change the station the second a host opened his mouth. And the music she loved, she played loud, windows down, drumming the wheel. What I'd been watching from the window wasn't a woman listening to music. She sat rigid, phone pressed to her ear, one hand cupped around it like she was shielding a candle from the wind.

I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself that right up until the night I stopped telling myself anything at all and drove to an electronics store on the far side of town.

The recorder was smaller than a deck of cards. Voice-activated, the box said, so it only woke when there was sound to catch. I waited until she was asleep, went out to her car in my socks, the concrete freezing under my feet, and pressed a strip of velcro under the driver's seat until the little thing held. Then I went back inside and lay awake beside her, listening to her breathe, hating myself and needing to know in equal measure.

The next evening I watched the ritual from the window one last time. Twenty minutes. The blue glow. The cupped hand. When she finally came in and went up to shower, I slipped out, retrieved the device, and carried it to the laptop in my home office with hands that wouldn't stay still.

There were dozens of files. I clicked the most recent one.

Her voice filled the small room, and it was a voice I had never heard her use with me. Soft. Unguarded. Spilling secrets and tenderness and plans into the phone the moment the engine died, every single night, in the four-square feet of car she'd turned into the one private place I couldn't reach.

The driveway, I realized, had never been a place she paused on her way home.

It was the only place she actually went.