She swore to herself she would get to the bottom of it, no matter how ugly the truth turned out to be. Only then would she decide what came next.
The rest of the evening passed in a strained silence. She fed Owen, cleared his tray, got Mike settled for bed. On the surface, everything looked the same. But now every familiar motion cost her effort.
Every time she looked at the man pretending in that bed, a wave of anger rose in her. For eight months she had cared for him without complaint. She got up at six to get everything done before work. She came home exhausted and changed his sheets, cleaned up after him, listened to his complaints.
And all that time he had been healthy enough to walk around at night and laugh on the phone.
“Ellie, why are you so quiet tonight?” Owen asked as she picked up the tray.
“I’m tired,” she said shortly.
“You’re always tired. Maybe work less,” he said, with a hint of mockery.
Work less, she thought. While I’m the only one carrying this family.
“Maybe,” she said through clenched teeth and left the room.
That night Eleanor didn’t sleep. She lay on the old couch in the living room listening for every sound from the bedroom. Around two in the morning she heard the soft creak of the bed and then footsteps.
He was up. Walking.
Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t scream. Anger surged through her, hot and sharp, but she knew she couldn’t show her hand yet. She needed proof. So she lay still until the steps stopped and the apartment fell quiet again.
Then she cried into her pillow without making a sound.
Tomorrow she would set the camera. Then she’d have what she needed.
The morning was gray and rainy. Eleanor got up early, made breakfast, and took sleepy Mike to school. On the outside, the day looked ordinary. Inside, she felt like steel.
At work she could barely focus. Patients, routine tasks, paperwork—all of it blurred. “You sure you’re okay?” Susan asked. “You look like a zombie.”
“Susan, I need your help,” Eleanor said quietly.
They stepped aside, and Eleanor gave her the short version: the flour, the footprints, the footsteps at night. Susan listened, and her kind face hardened. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew there was something off about that guy.”
“Remember the holiday party when he couldn’t stop staring at other women?”
Eleanor remembered. At the time she’d blamed the drinks. Now she knew better.
“What do you need from me?” Susan asked.
“I need someone to look at his scans. You know that trauma doctor, right?”
“Dr. Andrew Wolfe? Yes. He’s good. Want me to introduce you at lunch?”
“If you can.”
Susan nodded. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
She came back with a tall man in a white coat. He had dark hair touched with gray at the temples and attentive gray eyes. There were tired lines around them, but they made him look kind rather than worn out.
“Eleanor?” he asked, offering his hand.
“And you’re Dr. Wolfe. Susan said I might be able to ask you something.”
“Of course. Let’s talk in my office.”
Susan took the hint and left them alone.
His office was small but neat and comfortable. On the desk sat a framed photo of a boy around ten, and beside it a child’s drawing in a frame…
