Chương 2
Not a happy smile.
A satisfied one.
Another vibration came.
Then another.
His fingers moved quickly.
He was sending something.
Photos.
My stomach twisted.
I wanted to reach for my phone.
It was on the nightstand across from me.
Too far.
Too risky.
Marcus walked toward the dresser.
He opened the black bag again.
Something inside shifted.
Metal.
Plastic.
Small objects.
I heard the sound of scissors.
My heart started beating harder.
Then he spoke.
“Almost finished.”
The words were not meant for me.
They were meant for someone else.
Someone who was not in the room.
Someone who was waiting.
He cut something.
A tiny piece of fabric.
My pajama shirt.
The same shirt Claire gave me last Christmas because she said I dressed like I was permanently preparing to clean the house.
I almost laughed at the memory.
Almost.
That was the strange thing about fear.
It did not erase everything else.
Part of me was still thinking about my sister's terrible gift choices.
Part of me was still wondering if I had watered the plants before bed.
Part of me was still the person I had been before the room changed.
Marcus sealed the fabric inside a plastic bag.
Then he took another picture.
My eyes burned.
I wanted to open them.
I wanted him to know I was awake.
I wanted to see his face when he realized I knew.
But something stopped me.
A feeling I hated admitting.
Fear.
Not the fear of being hurt.
Something worse.
The fear that if I moved too soon, I would lose the only proof I had.
Marcus had spent weeks making me doubt myself.
Tonight, I finally had something real.
The phone vibrated again.
This time, he answered.
His voice dropped lower.
“I told you she wouldn't notice.”
A pause.
“She trusts me.”
My chest tightened.
He listened.
Then he looked toward the bed.
I kept still.
“She always does.”
The words landed harder than anything else.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
I had trusted him.
I had trusted him when my own memories felt unreliable.
I had trusted him when my body felt unfamiliar.
I had trusted him because trusting him was easier than accepting the alternative.
Marcus ended the call.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then he picked up the camera.
He looked at me one last time.
“Sweet dreams, Anna.”
My name sounded wrong in his voice.
Like he was pretending.
The bedroom door closed.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
A minute.
Then I opened my eyes.
The first thing I did was not cry.
The first thing I did was reach for my phone.
I turned off the sound.
I opened my messages.
I typed one sentence to the only person who had warned me before I was ready to listen.
Claire, I need you to come over. Do not call me. Do not tell Marcus. I think I finally know what is happening.
I stared at the message before sending it.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Because sending it meant admitting the truth.
It meant my marriage was no longer a place where I felt safe.
It meant the man sleeping downstairs might not be the man I thought I married.
I pressed send.
The message showed as delivered.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then Claire replied.
I am already on my way.
I looked at the bedroom door.
And for the first time in seven years, I locked it.
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I kept my hand on the lock until I heard the faint sound of Claire’s car pulling into the driveway.
The house had never felt so unfamiliar.
Every corner held some version of my life with Marcus.
The framed picture from our wedding.
The scratch on the hallway floor from when we moved the old bookshelf.
The dent in the kitchen cabinet where I dropped a pan while making Thanksgiving dinner three years ago.
Places that had always felt safe suddenly looked like evidence.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone.
The message from Claire remained open.
I wanted to call her.
I wanted to hear her voice.
But Marcus was still somewhere downstairs.
And I had no idea what he was capable of if he realized I was awake.
The sound of the front door opening made me stand.
A few seconds later, I heard Claire whisper my name.
“Anna?”
I opened the bedroom door slowly.
She was standing in the hallway wearing sweatpants, a winter coat thrown over a T-shirt, and the same worried expression she had worn when we were teenagers and I called her after my first breakup.
She looked older now.
So did I.
Fear had a way of making people look like they had lived another decade overnight.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Then she crossed the hallway and hugged me.
I almost pushed her away.
Not because I didn't want the comfort.
Because the second her arms wrapped around me, everything I had been holding together started falling apart.
My breathing changed.
My hands started shaking.
Claire noticed immediately.
She always noticed things other people missed.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
Her voice was quiet.
Not panicked.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
I looked past her toward the stairs.
“Not here.”
She followed my eyes.
“Is he home?”
I nodded.
Her face changed.
Not into anger.
Into something colder.
A kind of careful attention.
“Okay,” she said.
“Show me where you can talk.”
We went into the guest room and closed the door.
The room smelled like old laundry and the lavender candle I had forgotten to replace months ago.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed.
I stood because sitting felt impossible.
I told her everything.
The tea.
The exhaustion.
The missing memories.
The camera.
The bag.
The pictures.
The call.
I expected her to interrupt.
May you like
She didn't.
She listened with her hands folded together, occasionally looking down at the carpet.
