Gaslight

"Trash."

Clara repeats the word, testing its weight. The air in the kitchen is suddenly stifling, heavy with Eleanor’s floral perfume.

"Yes," Eleanor says, her voice as smooth as polished stone. She turns toward the pastry box, untying the baker’s string with practiced elegance. "Sometimes files corrupt. It’s a flaw in the code. A glitch. It doesn't mean anything."

She opens the box, revealing a half-dozen intricate tarts.

"Have one, Clara. You look pale."

Clara doesn't move. The threat is veiled, wrapped in maternal concern, but it is absolute. Eleanor knows about the recovered video.

"I'm fine," Clara says. "Just a long night."

Eleanor hums, selecting a raspberry tart. "David works so hard. Providing for this family. For you." She takes a small bite, chewing slowly. "It would be devastating if anything derailed his career right now. The foundation is launching that new pediatric wing. He needs to remain entirely focused."

*If anything derailed his career.* If the glitch in the code became public.

"I won't let anything distract him," Clara says. The invisible manager, promising to keep the house in order.

Eleanor’s smile returns, reaching her pale blue eyes this time. "I knew we understood each other. You're a smart girl, Clara. Much smarter than the others David brought home."

She wipes her fingers on a linen napkin, leaving a faint smudge of red fruit.

"I'll let myself out. Don't forget to eat."

The heavy front door clicks shut. Clara immediately locks the deadbolt, sliding the security chain into place. She leans against the wood, her knees weak.

The silence stretches until the low hum of the garage door opening breaks it.

David is home.

Clara walks into the living room, picking up stray toys, desperate for a normal physical action. David enters from the mudroom. He has taken off his suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looks exhausted.

He stops in the doorway, staring at her.

"My mother was here," he states. It isn't a question. He can smell the perfume.

"She brought pastries," Clara says, tossing a plastic dinosaur into a basket. "She said you called Marcus about the server migration."

David swallows hard. He steps into the living room, closing the distance between them. "I was worried. You were acting so strange last night. Dropping that name."

"Caleb."

He flinches, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second. "Yes. That."

"Who is he, David?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. She wants him to lie. She desperately wants him to give her an excuse she can believe.

David steps closer, reaching out to take her hands. His palms are clammy.

"It’s embarrassing," he says, his voice thick with practiced shame. "When I was young, before boarding school, I went through a rough patch. My father was sick. My mother was always gone. I... I invented him."

Clara stares at him. "You invented an imaginary friend?"

"An alter ego," David corrects quickly. "Caleb was the kid who didn't care about the Vance legacy. The kid who could be angry. I used the name online. In chat rooms. Even made a stupid video once."

He squeezes her hands, searching her face for absolution.

"I was messed up, Clara. My mother found out, and she completely erased it. Sent me to boarding school to start over. She hates that name. Hates that I was ever that weak."

It’s a good lie. It incorporates the video, the deleted files, and Eleanor’s extreme reaction. It makes him the victim of a strict upbringing.

"An alter ego," Clara repeats slowly.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he says, leaning in, pulling her against his chest. "I just wanted to be the man you married. The perfect David Vance."

Clara rests her chin on his shoulder. She looks over his back, out the window toward the quiet suburban street. She thinks of the GPS coordinates. Hillview Juvenile Rehabilitation Center isn't a chat room. It’s a state penitentiary for minors.

"It's okay," Clara says softly into his shirt. "I believe you."

She reaches into her pocket, her thumb sliding over the screen of her burner phone. She initiates the silent app installation on the device she had slipped into his suit pocket this morning.

David pulls back, a look of profound relief washing over his face. He believes she bought it. He believes the crisis is averted.

As he kissed her cheek, she saw the pulse racing in his neck—he was terrified.