Loverboy

Erasing a life. The phrase hung over the dinner table like a guillotine blade, the dinner guests frozen in the amber half-light of the emergency bulbs. Elena watched Val’s throat work as she swallowed, a hard, jagged movement that betrayed the panic beneath her stolen skin. Marcus hadn't moved; he sat with his steak knife poised, a dark statue of a man whose carefully directed play was suddenly veering off-script.

"Identity theft," Marcus repeated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "That’s a grim topic for a family dinner, Elena. I think the isolation is making you morbid."

"Is it?" Elena asked, tilting her head. "I find it comforting. Knowing that the truth is always there, buried in the blood. You can change a name, a hair color, even a stutter. But you can't change the bone."

Val stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the hardwood like a wounded animal. "I... I think I left my tea steeping in the kitchen. I'll be right back." She didn't wait for a response, her silk dress rustling as she retreated into the shadows of the hallway.

Elena didn't follow her with her eyes. She kept her gaze locked on Marcus, watching the muscle in his jaw pulse. She felt the paper in her bra—the two strands of hair, the blonde and the brown—pressing against her heart like a shield. She was no longer the mouse; she was the trap.

A soft, electronic chime echoed from the kitchen. It was a high-pitched, melodic trill—the default notification sound for an encrypted messaging app.

Elena’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen. She recognized that sound. It was the same ringtone she had heard emanating from Marcus’s blazer pocket two nights ago. The sound of his secret life.

Val walked back into the room a moment later, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. She didn't sit down. She moved toward the counter, ostensibly to check the teapot, but her eyes were glued to her screen. She didn't notice that she had left the phone’s face-up on the marble as she reached for a spoon.

Elena leaned back, her peripheral vision sharpening. A new notification banner scrolled across Val’s screen, the bright light cutting through the dimness of the kitchen.

*Message from: Loverboy*
*Content: She knows. The kid is next. Keep your head down.*

The chime rang out again. *Trill-ing.*

Elena looked at Marcus. He was still sitting at the head of the table, his hands folded, his face a mask of calm, husbandly concern. But beneath the table, the rhythmic blue glow of a smartphone screen reflected off the polished leather of his shoes. He was typing with his thumbs, his movements hidden by the heavy linen cloth.

They weren't just partners. They were lovers. And they were texting about her across the table.