Trust Issues

Marcus.

The name sits like a stone in my throat. My brother-in-law is the only visitor for a man the rest of the world thinks is a ghost. Marcus is the one feeding the chemical straightjacket. Marcus is the bagman for the silence.

I close the PDF and scrub my digital tracks. I delete the admin alias and wipe the cache, but the data is already etched into my brain.

The garage door rumbles. David is home.

I move to the living room, heart hammering against my ribs. I pick up a discarded Lego set, trying to ground myself in the mundane. Mia and Sam are upstairs, their laughter muffled by the heavy subflooring of this expensive, hollow house.

David enters, looking wind-stripped and weary. He drops his leather briefcase on the bench and exhales a long, shaky breath. He sees me and offers that practiced, tired smile—the one he uses when he wants me to stop asking questions.

"Hey," he says, crossing the room. He smells like the city and expensive rain. "Kids okay?"

"They're fine," I say, my voice sounding thin to my own ears. "Mia got an A on her spelling test."

"That's my girl."

He reaches for me, his hands sliding around my waist. Usually, this is where I lean in. Usually, this is the anchor of my day. But as his arms close around me, I feel the lie. I feel the legal non-existence of our marriage certificate. I feel the chemical haze Marcus is pumping into his father.

I pull back, masked by a sudden need to adjust a sofa cushion. "I have a bit of a headache, David. The rain, I think."

David's hands drop. His smile doesn't vanish, but it shifts. The warmth leaves it, replaced by a sharp, analytical edge. He stands perfectly still, watching me navigate the room.

"You've been spending a lot of time on that backup, Clara," he says. His voice is calm, but the rhythm is off. "Maybe you're overworking yourself. My mother mentioned you looked tired at the gala."

"I'm just being thorough," I say, not looking at him. "You know I hate loose ends."

"I do know that."

He walks toward the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. He stops at the island, his gaze lingering on the spot where the Willows envelope had been sitting just ten minutes ago. I had hidden it under the liner of the junk drawer, but David’s eyes are trained to find inconsistencies.

"Dinner's in thirty minutes," I call out, heading for the stairs.

I don't wait for a response. I retreat to the master suite, locking the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, the blue light of my phone the only illumination. I look at the photos of my children. Their lives are built on a foundation of fraud, and the people I thought were my family are the architects.

The door handle rattles. Just once. A soft, deliberate test of the lock.

"Clara?" David’s voice is muffled, coming from the hallway. "Are you really okay?"

"Just resting, David," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'll be down in a minute."

Silence follows. I count to twenty before I hear his footsteps move away. But they don't go toward the stairs. They stop at the door to my home office.

That night, the bed feels like a frozen lake. We lie inches apart, the air thick with the things we aren't saying. I pretend to sleep, my breathing shallow, my ears straining for any sound in the house.

David rolls over. I feel the mattress shift. He leans over me, his shadow blotting out the faint moonlight. I keep my eyes shut, my jaw clenched.

In the dark, he whispered, 'You're looking for something you won't like, Clara.'