CHAPTER TWO — THE MAN IN THE MIRROR
The sun had barely crept over the horizon when Karl pulled the car into the long, winding street that led to the Johnsons' home. The neighborhood was too quiet—too still—like the air itself was holding its breath.
Irene sat in the passenger seat, her face pale and fixed toward the window. She hadn't spoken since they left the hotel, her fingers nervously tracing invisible patterns on her black dress.
Karl stole glances at her between shifts of the wheel. Even sick, even fragile, she was still beautiful. The kind of beauty that made men believe in fairytales. But beauty had its price.
Sometimes it made men forget the monsters beneath the skin.
"You're quiet," Karl muttered, breaking the silence.
Irene blinked slowly, as if just realizing he was there. Her brown eyes flicked toward him, distant—like a woman trapped in a dream.
"I'm tired."
Karl's fingers tightened around the wheel. *Liar.*
"You should've stayed at the hotel."
"I couldn't."
*Wouldn't.*
He didn't say it out loud. He bit down on his tongue like he always did, tasting copper behind clenched teeth. How long had it been since they'd had a real conversation? When was the last time she looked at him without that veil of disappointment in her eyes?
Before Jerry's death, Irene had been warm. Funny. Alive. Now she was little more than a ghost wrapped in soft skin.
And Karl was the fool who thought he could bring her back.
---
They reached the Johnsons' house just before seven.
It was bigger than Karl expected—two stories, painted in warm earthy tones with creeping vines curling around the porch. The kind of house that looked like it belonged to *good* people.
It made him sick.
Irene practically jumped out of the car before the engine had even died. She smoothed down her black dress and hurried toward the porch, leaving Karl behind without so much as a glance.
For a moment, he just sat there, fingers locked around the steering wheel, watching her through the windshield.
His wife.
His pregnant wife.
Running straight into the arms of a dead man's family like she *belonged* there more than she belonged with him.
---
The door swung open before Irene even knocked.
Mrs. Johnson stood on the porch, wrapped in a black shawl, her face soft with age and grief.
"Irene, darling."
Karl watched as they fell into each other's arms, clinging like long-lost family.
*What about me?*
Mrs. Johnson glanced at him once, a flicker of polite surprise—like she hadn't expected him to come.
Karl climbed out of the car, walking slowly toward them. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching from behind the curtains—faces peering through the windows. Judging. Measuring.
By the time he reached the porch, the warmth in Mrs. Johnson's smile had dimmed.
"You must be Karl," she said, like she'd only just remembered he existed.
Karl extended his hand stiffly. "Irene's *husband.*"
There was a beat of silence.
Irene's jaw tightened.
Mrs. Johnson hesitated before shaking his hand—soft, brief, like she didn't want to hold on too long.
"Of course."
Nothing more. No *Welcome to our home.* No *Thank you for bringing her.*
Just *of course.*
---
Inside, the house smelled like old wood and lavender. Pictures lined the walls—family portraits frozen in time.
Jerry was everywhere.
His smiling face beamed from every frame. As a child. As a teenager. As a grown man in his military uniform. His eyes followed Karl down the hall like a curse.
Irene's eyes flicked toward each picture as if she were memorizing them all over again.
Karl felt invisible.
The only photo of them—their wedding photo—was still buried somewhere in the bottom drawer of their bedroom at home. Gathering dust.
---
The living room was already crowded—murmuring voices and soft clinks of coffee cups.
Jim was the first person Karl noticed.
He was taller than Jerry had been, broader too—but the resemblance was unmistakable. The same sharp jawline. The same deep-set eyes.
When Jim's gaze landed on Irene, his entire face lit up.
Karl felt something twist in his chest.
Irene's smile came easier for him than it ever did for Karl these days. She crossed the room without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that lasted too long.
Jim's hands lingered on her waist.
Karl's nails dug into his palms.
He stood at the edge of the room—on the outside, looking in.
No one introduced him.
No one even seemed to notice him.
---
Hours passed.
The house filled with laughter and whispered memories—stories of Jerry's kindness, his bravery, his bright future that had been snuffed out too soon.
Karl barely heard any of it.
His eyes never left Irene.
The way she laughed—really *laughed*—like she hadn't in years. The way Jim leaned in close when he spoke to her, their heads nearly touching.
There was something there.
Something rotten.
Karl's breath came heavier with every passing minute.
He couldn't prove it.
Not yet.
But he could feel it.
---
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Karl was unraveling.
When Jim casually placed his hand on the small of Irene's back, Karl saw red.
He was across the room before he knew it, grabbing Jim by the collar and slamming him into the wall.
The entire room fell silent.
"Get your hands off my wife," Karl snarled through clenched teeth.
Jim's face twisted in surprise, then something else—amusement.
"You're out of your mind, man," he wheezed.
Karl pressed harder.
He wanted to kill him. He *wanted* to feel the life drain from the smug bastard's throat.
Irene's voice sliced through the tension.
"Karl, stop!"
Her hands clawed at his arm, dragging him back.
Karl released Jim with a shove, breathing hard, his chest heaving.
Jim straightened his shirt, smirking through split lips.
"You see what I mean?" he muttered. "Control freak."
Karl's fists trembled at his sides.
He waited for Irene to defend him.
She didn't.
Instead, she turned to Jim, concern on her face.
"Are you okay?"
Karl's stomach turned to ice.
Irene hadn't looked at *him* like that in years.
---
Minutes later, Karl was outside by the car, his hands gripping the roof as he tried to steady himself.
Irene followed him out, arms crossed, face unreadable.
He exhaled. "Let's go."
She didn't move.
Karl turned to her. "Irene."
She shook her head.
"I'm staying."
The words punched the air from his lungs.
"You're—what?"
"I'm staying here tonight. You need to cool off."
Karl let out a hollow laugh. "You can't be serious."
She stared at him, unmoving.
His pulse roared in his ears.
This wasn't just about cooling off.
This was something else.
Something worse.
She was *choosing* them.
Choosing *him.*
Over *her husband.*
His hands clenched into fists.
"Irene, don't do this."
She turned without another word and walked back inside.
The door shut behind her with a finality that made Karl's breath hitch.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the closed door.
Then he got into the car.
Drove off into the dark.
Alone.
---
**To be continued…**