My Husband Stole My Voice for His Mistress

I waited until three in the morning. That was when Finnegan slept deepest. When the house was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator downstairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched his chest rise and fall. Five years of sleeping next to him and I had learned his rhythms. The way his breathing changed when he dreamed. The way he never woke before dawn.

I stood up slowly. The floor didn't creak. I had mapped every loose board in this house.

In the closet I found the noise-canceling earbuds I bought last year. Finnegan said they were for me. So I could listen to music without disturbing him. I had never used them. I slipped them into my pocket.

The hallway was dark. I moved through it like smoke.

Finnegan's studio was at the end of the hall. The door was always locked but I knew where he kept the key. Inside the frame of a photograph in the living room. A picture of us on our wedding day. I was smiling in white. He was smiling in gray.

I took the key from behind the frame and went back upstairs.

The lock turned without sound.

Inside, the studio smelled like leather and coffee. Equipment lined the walls. Monitors. Keyboards. A microphone on a stand in the corner. I had only been in here twice. Both times Finnegan was with me. Both times he explained his process like I was a child.

I closed the door and locked it from the inside.

The computer was still on. Finnegan never shut it down. He said inspiration didn't keep office hours.

I sat in his chair and put on the earbuds. Then I plugged them into the monitor speakers. The sound would go straight into my ears. No one else would hear.

I opened his session files.

There were hundreds. Organized by date. By artist. By project status. I scrolled through them slowly. My hands were shaking.

Then I saw it.

A folder labeled *MD_Album3_Finals*.

Melina Daniels. Album three.

I clicked it open.

Inside were dozens of files. I recognized some of the song titles. They had been on the radio. In grocery stores. Playing through the speakers in this house while I wrote grocery lists.

I clicked on one called *Bridge_Coaching_Session_Final.mp3*.

Finnegan's voice came through the earbuds. Clear. Close. Like he was sitting next to me.

"Okay, let's take it from the bridge again," he said. "Remember what we talked about. This is where the emotion peaks. You're not just singing the words. You're living them."

"Got it," Melina said. Her voice was bright. Eager.

"Alright. From 'I gave you my bones.'"

The music started. Soft piano. Then Melina's voice.

*I gave you my bones and you built yourself a house*

*I gave you my breath and you sold it for a song*

*I gave you my name and you wore it like a coat*

*I gave you my heart and you—*

I pulled the earbuds out.

My hands were shaking so hard I had to press them flat against the desk.

I knew those words.

I wrote those words.

Two weeks before the accident. In a notebook I kept under my bed. I had been working on that song for months. The bridge was the last piece. I finished it the night before the competition.

After the accident, I asked about the notebook. The nurse said nothing had been recovered from the car. I thought it was gone. Burned or lost or thrown away.

But it wasn't gone.

Finnegan had it.

I put the earbuds back in. My hands were steadier now. I pressed play.

"Better," Finnegan said. "But you're still thinking too much. Let me show you."

He sang the bridge. His voice was rough. Untrained. But he knew the words. Every syllable. Every breath.

He sang my song like it belonged to him.

"You hear that?" he said. "It's not about perfection. It's about vulnerability. That's what Naomi had. That's what made her special."

"Had," Melina said. "Past tense."

Finnegan laughed. "Yeah. Past tense."

I sat in the dark and listened to them laugh.

Then I opened another file. And another. And another.

I listened until the sky outside turned gray.

Every song in Melina's discography. Every platinum single. Every Grammy-nominated lyric.

Mine.

All of them.

When the sun came up, I took out the burner phone I bought three days ago. Cash. Gas station on the edge of the valley. I had driven there at two in the morning with the windows down and my hands tight on the wheel.

I photographed the screen. The file names. The timestamps. The metadata.

Then I went back to the session files and found the oldest ones. From five years ago. Right after the accident.

There was a folder labeled *NG_Originals_Archive*.

NG. Naomi Gutierrez.

I opened it.

Thirty-seven files. Every song I had ever written. Every melody I hummed into my phone at midnight. Every lyric I scribbled on napkins and receipts.

All of them stripped. Rebuilt. Renamed.

I photographed everything.

When I was done, I closed the files and turned off the monitors. I put the key back in the picture frame. I went upstairs and slipped into bed beside Finnegan.

He was still asleep. Still dreaming.

I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling.

The sun was coming through the windows now. Bright. Expensive.

I didn't close my eyes.

I had thirty-seven reasons not to.