Tomorrow, 11:00 p.m. Everything’s set. —Z
At the time, tired and distracted, Eleanor had assumed it was spam or a wrong number. But now that mysterious “Z” lined up a little too neatly with the “baby” Mike had heard him say. Her heart kicked hard in her chest.
No, this was no longer just vague suspicion. The pieces were starting to fit, and the picture was ugly.
By morning, Eleanor could hardly wait to get back home. She kissed her mother goodbye, settled Mike on the bus, and stared out the window the whole ride back without really seeing anything.
They got home around four in the afternoon. “Do you think Dad will be happy we’re back already?” Mike asked hopefully.
“Sure, sweetheart,” Eleanor said, not believing it herself.
The apartment door opened easily. The entryway was dark and strangely still. Eleanor took off her coat, helped Mike with his, and said quietly, “Go play in your room for a little while. I’m going to check on Dad.”
Mike nodded and ran off. Eleanor took a deep breath and walked down the hall toward the bedroom like she was heading to a verdict.
Her heart was pounding in her throat. Her palms were damp. She stopped at the closed door, listening to the silence behind it, then forced herself to turn the handle.
She pushed the door open and hit the light switch. The first thing she saw was Owen lying in bed, turned toward the wall, breathing in the slow, steady rhythm of someone asleep.
For one brief second, relief flooded her. Maybe this had all been a mistake. Maybe Mike had dreamed it. Maybe Tamara had been wrong.
Then her eyes dropped to the floor.
The thin white layer of flour she had spread before leaving wasn’t lightly disturbed. It had been trampled. Clear barefoot prints—male, unmistakable—led from the bed to the door and back again.
And not just once. Whoever made them had walked around the room more than a little.
Eleanor’s knees nearly gave out. She grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. “Ellie, you back from your mother’s?” Owen called in a sleepy, scratchy voice from the bed.
She couldn’t answer. She just stood there staring at the white tracks on the floor.
The world she had been living in collapsed all at once. For eight months she had worked herself raw and buried herself in debt. She had cared for him every day like he was truly helpless.
And all that time, he had been lying.
“Ellie, what’s with you? You look pale,” Owen said, still not understanding he’d been caught.
She slowly lifted her eyes and looked at the man she had thought she knew. “Nothing. Long trip. I’m tired,” she said in a flat voice. “I’m going to change and start dinner.”
She backed out into the hallway, closed the door, and leaned against the wall. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t make a sound. All this time he had been using her love and pity like tools.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. A message from Tamara: Well?
Eleanor wiped her face and typed with shaking fingers: You were right. Footprints. He can walk.
Tamara answered at once: Come upstairs in ten minutes. We need to talk strategy.
Eleanor looked at the closed bedroom door with open disgust. Behind it lay the man who had lied to her for eight straight months—the man she had trusted, the man she had sacrificed everything for.
A hot wave of anger rose in her, followed by something colder and stronger: resolve. She would get the truth, all of it, no matter what it cost.
“Mike, I’m running upstairs to see Tamara for a minute. Stay in your room, okay?” she called.
“Okay, Mom!” he answered.
Eleanor stepped out of the apartment and climbed one flight up…
