Chapter 1: The Interrogation of a Pathetic Husband
The genkan was narrow, polished to a soft sheen that reflected the dim evening light filtering through the frosted window. The air smelled of lemon wood polish and something warmer, spicier—her perfume, clinging to the space even when she wasn’t in it. Shuichi’s shoulders automatically hunched as he stepped inside, his keys jangling once before falling silent in his palm. He could feel the low ceiling like a physical pressure.
He toed off his shoes, lining them up neatly beside a single, smaller pair of black flats. His fingers went to his throat, adjusting a tie that wasn’t there. He’d taken it off hours ago at the station, after the third cup of terrible coffee. His uniform jacket was wrinkled across the shoulders from leaning over case files, his hair still slightly damp from the rushed shower he’d taken there, trying to wash the scent of interrogation rooms and despair off his skin.
He just wanted to see her.
A whisper of movement. A shift in the air.
Maki sat on a single cushion placed precisely in the center of the hallway that led from the genkan to the living room. She was a silhouette carved from shadow and intent, her back impossibly straight, one hand resting lightly on the gentle, new curve of her stomach. The black dress she wore was simple, but it clung to every line, the fabric stretching softly over her belly. She looked like a queen holding court in a corridor.
Her crimson eyes tracked him, not missing the way he froze, the slight twitch in his jaw. She didn’t smile.
“You’re late.”
Her voice was a low, smooth thing. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Shuichi’s throat worked. “The Tanaka case. The paperwork—”
“I don’t care.”
He believed her. He always believed her. He shuffled forward one step, the polished floorboards cool under his socks. His body ached for the couch, for the quiet, for her sharp warmth beside him. But this was a ritual. He knew his part.
He sank to his knees on the hardwood, the motion clumsy, his detective’s coat rustling. The distance between them was only a few feet, but it felt like a chasm. He fumbled in his pocket, his hands—the hands that had steadily bagged evidence all day—trembling just a little. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held it out toward her. The screen glowed in the dim hallway.
Thirty-seven consecutive messages. All from him. All variations of ‘I’m so sorry,’ ‘Running late,’ ‘Just another hour, I promise,’ ‘Maki, please don’t wait up.’
She didn’t look at the phone. Her gaze remained locked on his face, studying the fatigue under his eyes, the faint stubble on his chin. Her expression was unreadable.
Slowly, deliberately, she stretched one bare foot toward him. Her toes were perfectly manicured, painted a deep, bloodless crimson. She hooked the tip of her big toe into the gap between two buttons of his wrinkled white shirt.
He stopped breathing.
With a subtle, practiced flex, she popped the first button open. Then the second. The cool air of the apartment brushed his skin. He could feel the heat of her foot through his shirt. He held the phone aloft, his arm beginning to ache, his entire world narrowing to the point where her skin almost touched his.
“Explain to me, idiot detective,” she purred, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her toe worked on the third button. “How you can reconstruct a serial murderer’s timeline from a shred of fabric and a half-eaten meal…” The fourth button gave way. “But you can’t manage to…” Her foot slid down, the arch pressing flat against his chest for a moment, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart, before she withdrew.
In one fluid motion, she stood. It was graceful, powerful, despite the new weight she carried. She stepped forward, placed her bare foot squarely on the police badge clipped to his belt. With a soft, metallic crunch, she pressed down.
Shuichi flinched. Not from pain, but from the symbolism. The authority he carried out into the world, crushed under her foot in their hallway.
She leaned down, her dark hair falling around her face like a curtain. She grabbed the loose fabric of his shirt where she’d unbuttoned it and yanked him forward, their faces inches apart. He could see the faint scar near her hairline, the tiny gold flecks in her crimson irises, the absolute, terrifying love in her gaze.
Her whisper was a blade of steam. “Come home to your pregnant wife on time for once in your worthless life.”
He smelled the tea on her breath. Jasmine. She’d been waiting.
“I…” His voice cracked. “I lost track of time. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Maki.”
“Sorry is a useless word.” She released his shirt, but didn’t straighten up. Her hand came up and slapped his cheek. It wasn’t a hard strike, but it was sharp, a punctuation mark. “It doesn’t cook dinner. It doesn’t keep the bed warm. It doesn’t tell me you weren’t bleeding out in some alley.”
The real fear bled through then, raw and unmistakable beneath the aggressive veneer. That was it. That was always it.
He finally let his phone arm drop, the screen darkening. He reached up, his hand covering the one she’d just slapped him with, pressing her cool palm to his warmer cheek. He turned his face into it, kissing her palm.
“I was safe. I’m always careful. For you. For….” His eyes flicked to her stomach, and a wonder so profound it hurt flooded his expression, melting the last of his detective’s detachment. “For us.”
She scowled, trying to tug her hand away, but he held it fast. “Sentimental idiot. Your dinner is cold. You’ll have to reheat it yourself.”
“I will.”
“And you’re doing the dishes.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re giving me a foot massage. Your child is using my bladder as a trampoline and my back aches.”
“Anything.”
She searched his face, her fierce gaze softening at the edges, just for him. Only for him. She saw the long day, the heavy thoughts, the genuine remorse, and the adoration that never, ever wavered. She saw her Shuichi.
“Pathetic,” she muttered, but the word had lost all its heat. It was an endearment. She used her grip on his hand to pull him up to his feet. “Now get in here. I’m cold.”
He followed her into the warm light of the living room, where a single place was set at the table, and her own empty teacup sat beside a book on prenatal care. He saw the blanket she’d been curled under, folded neatly on the sofa. He saw the careful life they were building, brick by brick, in the quiet space between her insults and his steadfast acceptance.
He shed his wrinkled coat, draped it over a chair. As he moved to the microwave, he heard her settle back onto the couch with a soft sigh. He glanced over. She was watching him, one hand spread over her belly, a look of possessive, exasperated triumph on her beautiful, sharp face.
He was, without a single doubt, the happiest man alive.
He was, without a single doubt, the happiest man alive.
This happiness had a specific texture, a rhythm he’d learned to read in the years since she’d decided to keep him. It was in the silent, shared reheating of his dinner, the clatter of the microwave door, the way she watched him eat from across the table, her own chopsticks picking at a bowl of edamame. It was in the deep, almost painful tenderness that swelled in his chest when, after the dishes were done and her feet were in his lap, she let her head fall back against the couch and closed her eyes, a soft, unguarded sigh escaping her.
It was in the phone calls.
Every weekday, at 12:07 PM, his phone would ring. Or rather, hers would. He was always the one to call. He’d find a quiet corner of the station, away from the bullpen’s chaotic din, his back to a sun-warmed window or a cold concrete wall. He’d dial, his thumb smoothing over the cracked screen where her contact photo glowed—a rare picture where she wasn’t scowling, but looking away, a hint of a smile touching her lips.
She always answered on the second ring.
“What.”
“Hi, Maki.”
“It’s lunch. You’re supposed to be eating. Are you eating?”
“I will. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A scoff. Always a scoff. “Pathetic. Don’t you have coworkers to gossip with? Go make a friend, Shuichi. It’s embarrassing.”
He’d smile, pressing the phone closer. “I don’t want to gossip. I want to know if the baby kicked today.”
Another ritual. She’d complain. She’d call him a useless idiot for asking the same question every day.
She’d call him a useless idiot for asking the same question every day.
A pause would hang in the digital space between them, filled with the distant hum of the station on his end, the quiet of their home on hers.
“Once,” she’d finally say, her voice grudging. “Around eleven. Near my ribs. It felt… odd.”
He’d close his eyes, picturing it. The once-lean, deadly curve of her abdomen, now housing a tiny, insistent foot. It was a miracle that routinely stole his breath. “Strong,” he’d murmur.
“Annoying,” she’d correct, but he could hear the faintest trace of wonder beneath the irritation. “He’s going to be a nuisance. Like you.”
“He?”
“Or she. Whatever. It’s kicking my organs. Gender is irrelevant.” Another pause. “Are you eating yet, or am I going to have to come down there and force-feed you?”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
“Good. Try not to solve any more crimes before five. I’m not in the mood to wait again.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re a terrible liar, detective. Just be safe.” And she’d disconnect, always without a goodbye.
He’d stand there for a moment, phone warm in his hand, the echoing silence now a comforting thing. She’d hung up, but she’d answered. She’d complained, but she’d told him. She’d called him pathetic, but she’d asked about his lunch. It was their language, morse code tapped out on a drum of snarls and threats.
Tonight, after the foot massage, she dozed off on the couch, her breathing deepening into a slow, steady rhythm. He watched the subtle flutter of her eyelids, the way her protective hand never left the slope of her stomach. The book on prenatal care lay open on the floor. He marked her page with a receipt, closed it, and set it on the coffee table.
Gently, so gently, he slid his arms under her—one behind her knees, the other supporting her back and shoulders. He braced himself for her instinctual reaction, the jerk into awareness, the potential for a defensive strike she’d once trained into her very cells.
She stirred, mumbled something incoherent against his neck. Her body, though softened by pregnancy, was still dense with residual muscle. He wasn't a large man, and he grunted softly with the effort, taking a careful step, then another.
“Put me down, you idiot,” she slurred, but her arms came up and looped loosely around his neck. Her nose pressed into the hollow of his throat. “You’ll throw your back out. You’re useless at lifting.”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her hair.
“Of course you do. Where else would you be?” Her voice was thick with sleep. It was the closest she ever came to saying ‘I trust you.’
He carried her down the short hall to their bedroom, the world narrowed to the warmth of her in his arms and the treacherous expanse of shadowy floorboards. He managed the doorframe, his shoulder brushing the jamb. He knelt, a slow, controlled descent, and laid her on the mess of their sheets. She immediately curled onto her side, the preferred position she’d recently adopted, clutching a pillow to her chest.
He pulled the comforter over her, tucking it around her shoulders. In the dark, he began to undress, shucking off his uniform pants, his socks. He slid into bed behind her, his body a careful parenthesis around hers. He rested his palm on her belly, over the black cotton of her dress.
For a long time, he just lay there in the dark, listening to her breathe. The anxieties of the day—the unsolved aspects of the Tanaka case, the crying victim’s family, the bureaucratic paperwork—all of it receded, muted by the profound, terrifying peace of this moment. His wife. His child. This dark, quiet room they shared.
Her hand came down and covered his, lacing their fingers together over her stomach. Her skin was cool.
“Shuichi.”
“Yeah?”
“If you die because you were being careless,” she said, her voice clear and quiet in the darkness, no trace of sleep left in it. “I will find your corpse. I will bring you back. And then I will kill you myself. Slowly. Do you understand?”
He did. It was her love poem, her epic. It was the vow she could make that meant more than any sweet nothing. It was a promise of eternity, violent and unwavering.
He pressed his lips to the knob of her spine, felt the shudder it elicited. “I understand.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hand once, crushingly tight, then relaxed. “Now go to sleep, useless. You need your rest.”
And he did.