Close Call

I heard the rattle of the copper kettle, a sharp, domestic warning that my time had expired. I shoved the forged divorce decree back into its heavy folder, my fingers fumbling with the edges. The paper felt like a live wire, pulsing with the electricity of Julian’s betrayal. I slammed the lid of the lockbox, the hollow metallic thud echoing through the den like a gavel.

I slid the box back into its dark cavity under the desk, my heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. As I stood up, smoothing the front of my oversized wool cardigan, I felt a weight shift in my pocket. My burner phone—the one I had purchased specifically for this shadow life—slipped from the knit fabric.

It hit the plush rug with a sickeningly soft sound.

I dropped to my knees, my breath hitching as I heard Mia’s footsteps round the corner of the gallery. My fingers brushed the plastic casing, but the phone had skidded toward the legs of Julian’s drafting chair. I scrambled after it, my knuckles scraping against the cedar flooring.

"Claire? Is everything okay?" Mia’s voice was closer now, just on the other side of the threshold.

I snatched the phone, shoving it deep into the side pocket of my notebook just as the door swung wider. I stayed on the floor, leaning my weight against the baseboards, my hand reaching out to trace the white-painted molding. I forced a look of professional concentration onto my face, though my vision was swimming with the afterimage of that forged court seal.

"Oh," I said, offering a small, breathless laugh as I looked up at her. "I’m so sorry. I was just checking the joinery on these baseboards. They’re immaculate. I was wondering if they were custom-milled to match the crown molding."

Mia stood in the doorway, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. She looked down at me, her expression a mix of confusion and that pervasive, tired suspicion I had been working so hard to erode. I held my breath, the metal corner of the burner phone pressing into my palm through the leather of my notebook.

"I think so," Mia said slowly, her gaze lingering on my flushed face. "Julian is... very particular about the details. He says the bones of the house are what determine its soul."

"He's right," I said, pushing myself up and dusting off my knees. My hands were trembling, a low-frequency vibrate that I hoped she wouldn't notice. I took the mug she offered, the ceramic heat searing my cold skin.

I took a sip, the Earl Grey tasting like dust. I needed to leave. I needed to get these photographs to Marcus. I needed to get away from the scent of Julian’s cologne and the sight of my own stolen life.

Mia handed her a mug. 'You look pale, Claire. Are you okay?'