Ch. 12 | Vanity, Thy Name Is Lynn

The night before the HOA-sponsored White Party, Lynn sat at her vanity, lost in thought.

The choir director was miles away from her reflection. From the outside, her life was pristine. A luxurious primary bedroom. A full social calendar. Volunteer work. Choir rehearsals. Her sweet cat, Oliver, curled at her feet. With Jerry newly retired, the childless couple had settled into this Vegas enclave with grace—or so it appeared.

But if someone looked too closely, they’d see the fool’s gold beneath the shine.

Jerry had a taste for cocaine and parties. He provided financially, but that was the end of his responsibilities. Lynn’s job, in his mind, was to keep him fed and sexually fulfilled. Early in their marriage, that arrangement had suited her. She loved the look of her life—the optics of success, of order.

But over time, the hollowness gnawed at her. And regret began to bubble up in unexpected ways.

Maybe that’s why she entertained the affair.
No—not an affair. A slip.
Or two.
Or three.
Honestly, she’d lost count. The more it happened, the harder it became to rationalize.

And harder still to hide.

Lynn’s guilt wasn’t about whether she was a good person—but whether she was seen as one. That distinction had become painfully clear in her fifties. At first it bothered her. Then it didn’t. It was easier to play nice than to be nice. Everyone else was doing it, right?

She could blame Jerry. His absence. His habit. His disinterest.

But the truth? With each passing day, Lynn felt less repentant.

Until the church meeting with Pastor Erik.

He was harmless—maybe even oblivious—but Lynn caught the flicker in his eyes. A sliver of judgment—or maybe pity. Both made her want to run.

It had once thrilled her.
But now?

Now it terrified her.

Do not ignore me, Lynn. I need to see you.

The text made her skin crawl. She picked up her phone… and threw it back down.

She’d been ducking him for days. Now he was acting strange. Possessive. Maybe even dangerous.

Who had she invited into her life?

She stared into the mirror. Her fingers hovered over her skin, as if she could wipe away what had been done.

Oliver stirred at her feet, stretching and brushing his orange body against her calf. She reached down and scratched his belly—once. Anymore, and she’d earn a playful nip.

“Ollie,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

She picked up the phone again.

Please do not contact me anymore. We’re through.

She sent the message. Set the phone down.

A second later, it buzzed.

Her stomach dropped.

She took a breath and picked it up.

You’re going to regret this, Lynn. You and your junkie husband will pay.

She stared at the message, cold dread settling in her bones.

What had once felt thrilling… had turned rotten.

And for the first time in her life, Lynn felt it—truly, deeply:

There might not be a way out.