Then he scrolled through the comments.
I expected him to grab his keys and drive straight to his mother’s house.
Instead, he carefully placed my phone down, sat beside me on the bed, and took my hand.
“Don’t respond, Claire. Not a single word. Please, just trust me.”
“Nathan, she…”
“I know. I know exactly what she did.”
He kissed my knuckles.
Something about his expression was different.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Almost unnervingly calm.
I assumed he wanted me to ignore Patricia and move on.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
By the third night, I was finally improving.
At two in the morning, I woke and noticed blue light spilling into the hallway.
I quietly walked toward the kitchen.
Nathan was sitting at the table with a cold mug beside him.
On his laptop was an enlarged photograph of Patricia’s porch.
The mat sagged near the door. A paper bag sat beside it. A dark smear marked the threshold.
Beside the computer lay a legal pad.
Nathan had written down a time, an address, and four words:
***Fridge. Cabinets. Laundry. Towels.***
Each one was underlined twice.
“Nathan?”
He quickly placed his hand over the notepad.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
He partially closed the laptop.
“Go back to bed. I’ll be in soon.”
There was something unsettlingly calm in his eyes.
I had no idea he planned to wake me before dawn.
A hand touched my shoulder in the darkness.
When I opened my eyes, Nathan was standing beside the bed holding my coat. His keys were already in his other hand.
“Get dressed, honey. Quiet.”
“Nathan, it’s not even five.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
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