Marcus Leaves

The line went dead. No doctor. Just Seraphina's voice changing from sobbing to cold silence.

Elena held the phone to her ear for a moment longer, listening to the dial tone, before slowly lowering it. The silence in the foyer was heavy, filled with the unspoken accusation that hung between them.

Marcus stood frozen, his hand still extended towards her, the mask of the concerned husband slipping, revealing the panic underneath.

"She hung up," Elena said, her voice flat. "Must be the reception in the acute care wing."

"Or she's terrified because you just interrogated her like a criminal," Marcus snapped, his tone shifting from pleading to aggressive. "You don't understand addiction, Elena. The shame. The fear. You just made it worse."

"I made it worse by asking to speak to a doctor?"

"You made it worse by making it about money!" he shouted, the sound echoing off the marble floors. "God, you are so... obsessed. It's always about the ledger with you, isn't it? Never about the human cost."

Elena looked at him. The handsome face she had woken up next to for five years was contorted with a mixture of rage and desperation. He was cornered, and he was dangerous.

"I'm going upstairs," she said, turning away. "I need to lie down."

"You're not going anywhere until we fix this," Marcus said, grabbing her arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to stop her. "She needs that money, El. If you don't send it, I will."

"With what?" she asked, looking pointedly at his hand on her arm until he released her. "Your cards are maxed. The trust is locked. Unless you have a stash I don't know about?"

He glared at her, his jaw working. "I'll find a way. I always do."

"Good luck," she said, and walked up the stairs.

She didn't go to their bedroom. She went to the guest room, locking the door behind her. She sat on the bed, her hands shaking, and waited.

She heard him pacing downstairs. The heavy tread of his boots on the hardwood. Then the sound of a cabinet opening—the liquor cabinet. Glass clinking against glass.

Ten minutes later, she heard him coming up the stairs.

He stopped outside the door. She held her breath.

"Elena?" his voice was softer now, muffled by the wood. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I'm just... I'm scared for her. Please. Let me in."

She didn't answer.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'm going to pack a bag. I'm going to drive up there. If I can't send the money, maybe I can talk to the administrators in person."

Drive up there. To Scarsdale. To the call center.

"Okay," she said through the door. "Drive safe."

She heard him walk down the hall to the master suite. The sound of drawers opening and closing. The zip of a suitcase.

He was leaving. He was going to damage control. He was going to coordinate the next phase of the lie with Seraphina.

Elena waited until she heard his heavy footsteps go back down the stairs. The front door opened and closed. The engine of the Range Rover roared to life in the driveway, then faded into the distance.

She ran to the window. The taillights were disappearing down the long, winding drive.

He was gone.

She went back to the master bedroom. It smelled of him—cedar and sweat and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla that must have transferred from his clothes.

The drawers were open, a few socks spilling out. He had packed quickly.

She walked to the bathroom. His dopp kit was gone. The blue velvet box with the sapphire pendant was gone.

But she needed to be sure.

She checked the closet. His heavy winter coat was gone. His boots.

She checked the nightstand. His passport was still there. He wasn't fleeing the country. Not yet.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the house pressing in on her. He had left her alone. He had taken the bait of the "frozen account" and run to fix the problem manually.

She looked at the empty spot on the dresser where the receipt had been.

He hadn't just taken clothes.

She opened the jewelry box on the vanity. Her diamond bracelet was there, cold and sparkling.

But next to it, in the velvet slot where she kept her emergency cash—a few hundred dollars for tips and incidentals—it was empty.

He had taken the cash.

And then she saw it.

Tucked into the corner of the jewelry box, hidden behind a stack of bangles, was a small, folded piece of paper.

She pulled it out. It was a note, written in Marcus's handwriting on hotel stationery.

*Check the safe deposit box.*

Elena frowned. They didn't have a safe deposit box. Not a joint one.

Unless he meant the one in the study. The one behind the painting.

She ran downstairs, her heart pounding. She pushed aside the heavy oil painting of the Hawthorne patriarch in the study. The safe was there, set into the wall.

She didn't know the combination. Marcus had always said it was for "client files."

But she remembered the code for the iPad. *0612.* Their anniversary.

She typed it in.

*Error.*

She tried Seraphina's birthday. *1212.*

*Error.*

She tried the date of the deed transfer she had found. *0115.*

The light turned green. The lock clicked.

She pulled the heavy door open.

Inside, there were no client files. No stacks of cash.

There was a single, blue velvet box.

She opened it.

It wasn't the sapphire pendant. It wasn't the diamond bracelet.

It was a syringe.

Filled with a clear liquid.

And next to it, a note in Seraphina's handwriting.

*For when the Goose stops laying.*

He didn't think she saw him slip the blue velvet box into his dopp kit. But he had left something far worse behind.