I came home during my lunch break because I couldn’t shake the guilt. Ethan had been “too sick” to go in for three days—coughing, pale, the whole act. I’d been leaving him water, texting him reminders to take his meds, and rushing back to the office like a bad wife in a hurry.
Every time I left, he’d waved weakly from the couch like a man who needed saving. I’d hated myself for the relief I felt when the front door shut behind me and my day returned to something I could control. So I decided I’d do something sweet.
Soup from the deli. His favorite ginger ale. A quick check-in kiss.
Proof that I was still the kind of wife who showed up. I parked a block away out of habit, not wanting to wake him with the garage door. The neighborhood looked normal—winter-gray trees, a couple of kids walking home from school, a dog barking behind a fence.
Our house sat there like it always had, curtains drawn, quiet and private, the kind of home people described as “peaceful.”
I let myself in quietly, shoes in hand, and froze when I heard his voice. He wasn’t coughing. He wasn’t weak.
He was in the living room, pacing, and his tone was sharp—controlled, low, urgent. Nothing like the sick voice he’d been putting on for me all week. I stayed in the hallway, heart thudding, and listened like my body had turned into a surveillance camera.
“No, you’re not hearing me,” Ethan said. “I told you the timeline. She can’t suspect anything until after Friday.”
Friday.
Timeline. My stomach tightened. Who was “she”?
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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