The Panic Attack

Julian Caleb. The brother took the discarded name. A tribute or a reminder?

Clara copies the Oregon address into her encrypted note. The front door unlocks downstairs, the heavy thud of the deadbolt echoing up the stairs. David is home early. The foundation office usually keeps him until six on Mondays. It’s barely four.

She unplugs the shadow drive, slipping it into the hollowed-out space beneath a stack of old printer paper, and steps out into the hallway.

David is standing in the foyer. He hasn't taken off his overcoat. He is staring blankly at the wall, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon.

"David?" Clara asks, keeping her voice even. She descends the stairs slowly. "Are you alright? You're home early."

He doesn't answer immediately. He scrubs a hand over his face, his fingers trembling wildly. When he finally looks at her, his eyes are wide and entirely unfocused.

"I couldn't breathe," he says. The words are jagged. "In the boardroom. The walls... they just started closing in."

"Okay," Clara says, moving toward him. She plays the supportive wife, the anchor in his storm. "Let's get your coat off. Come sit down."

He flinches away from her touch. He stumbles backward, hitting the console table. A vase wobbles precariously before settling.

"No," he gasps. He tugs frantically at the knot of his silk tie, pulling it loose with a violent jerk. "I can't. I need... I need quiet."

He turns and practically sprints down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time. The heavy oak door of the master bathroom slams shut. The lock clicks loudly.

Clara stands in the foyer, the discarded tie lying like a dead snake on the hardwood floor.

A panic attack. A severe one. Triggered by what? The foundation board? Or a call from his mother?

She walks upstairs, her footsteps silent. She stops outside the bathroom door. She can hear him gasping on the other side, the sound desperate and hollow. The water in the sink turns on full blast, masking the noise.

"David?" she calls out softly. "Do you want me to come in?"

"Leave me alone!" His voice cracks over the sound of rushing water. "Just... give me ten minutes, Clara. Please."

She steps back from the door. Her gaze falls to the unmade bed in the master suite. David's suit jacket is thrown haphazardly across the duvet.

His phone is sticking out of the breast pocket.

It isn't the burner. It's his primary iPhone. The one supposedly devoid of secrets.

Clara moves quickly. She picks up the jacket, sliding the phone out. She knows his passcode. It's the kids' birth years. He never changes it.

She taps the numbers. The screen unlocks.

She doesn't check his email. She goes straight to his text messages. The most recent thread is with Eleanor.

The screen displays a rapid-fire exchange of short, terse messages.

`Eleanor: The board expects you to present the expansion plan on Tuesday.`
`David: I can't. Not the Hillview project. I told you.`
`Eleanor: You will do what is required for the foundation's public image.`
`David: I can't look at that place again. I can't.`

Clara’s thumb hovers over the screen. She scrolls down to the very last message, sent just twenty minutes ago, right before David bolted from the office.

The text from Eleanor read: 'Control your wife, or I will use the 1998 file.'