Silence from David

David’s eyes in the glass are dark, unreadable pools.

I freeze, my hand still buried in the wool of my cardigan, the cloner a hot coal against my palm. The silence in the hallway is absolute, a vacuum that sucks the air right out of my lungs. Behind him, the dining room is a roar of distant, civilized noise—Eleanor laughing at one of Marcus’s dry legal jokes.

David doesn't move. He doesn't call out. He just stands there, a ghost in a tailored suit, watching me through the silvered surface of the mirror.

"The kids are fine," I say, my voice cracking like thin ice. "I was just... looking for my phone."

He doesn't respond. He steps forward, his reflection growing larger, blotting out the sight of the mahogany console. He reaches out, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to grab my wrist, to demand I empty my pockets. Instead, he simply adjusts the lapel of his jacket, his movements slow and mechanical.

"We’re leaving," he says. His voice is a hollow rasp.

He turns and walks back into the dining room without waiting for me. I follow, my legs feeling like lead, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The goodbyes are a blur of Eleanor’s cold cheek against mine and Marcus’s firm, proprietary handshake.

The drive home is a descent into a deeper kind of dark.

David grips the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white under the greenish glow of the dashboard. He hasn't looked at me since the mirror. He hasn't asked why I was hovering over Marcus’s briefcase.

The rain starts as we hit the main road, a sudden, violent lash against the windshield. The wipers beat a rhythmic *thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum*, the only sound in the car. Every time a headlight from an oncoming car sweeps across his face, I look for a sign. Anger. Suspicion. Fear.

There is nothing but a mask of bone and shadow.

I shift in the leather seat, the cloner heavy in my pocket. I keep expecting him to pull over. I expect him to demand the truth. I expect him to tell me that Marcus saw the administrative ping and sent him to catch me.

But the blue dot of our home on the GPS gets closer and closer. We turn into the subdivision. The manicured lawns and smart-lights look like a stage set for a play that has gone horribly wrong.

He pulls into the garage and kills the engine. The silence that follows is heavier than the noise of the rain. He doesn't get out. He stays there, staring through the glass at the brick wall of the garage.

"David?" I whisper.

He exhales, a long, ragged sound that shudders through the small space. He finally turns his head, but his gaze stops at the window, peering out into the darkness of the driveway.

"Whatever you took," he said without looking at her, "don't let my mother find out."