My pulse began to pound so hard I had to press my hand against the wall to steady myself. I leaned just enough to see him pacing across the rug, upright and strong, phone to his ear, sunlight cutting clean lines across his face. There was no blanket. No cough. No weakness.
“I transferred the funds,” he replied smoothly. “Let me finish it.”
Funds. Deed. Friday. Timeline.
The words didn’t feel random. They felt constructed.
“She’s back,” he muttered suddenly. “I’ll call you later.”
I stepped backward into the kitchen entrance, forcing my breathing into something slow and manageable before walking in.
“Hi,” I called evenly. “I came home for a minute.”
Seconds later, he emerged wrapped tightly in the gray blanket, coughing as if someone had signaled him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, a narrow smile on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I got worried,” I said gently. “I brought soup.”
He nodded, settling onto the couch with theatrical exhaustion. When I asked who he had been talking to, he didn’t hesitate.
“Just work stuff.”
His gaze slid past me. The lie was effortless.
I turned on the faucet so he wouldn’t hear the tremor in my breath. My mind replayed every word I had overheard.