Chapter 4: The Man on the Couch
He was still there when I got home.
Same couch.
Same beer.
His mother had moved to the armchair.
The television was on.
They looked up when I walked in, and my husband smiled the way he always smiled when he thought he'd won something.
"All cleaned up?" he said.
"Spotless," I said.
I set my bag down and went to the kitchen.
I filled a glass of water and stood at the counter, drinking it slowly, listening to the sound of the television.
He appeared in the doorway a minute later.
"She called me," he said.
I set the glass down.
"Who did?"
"Don't." His voice was different now.
Quieter.
"She told me you were there when she arrived.
She told me you went through the drawer."
"Your mother's drawer?"
"Olivia."
I turned around.
He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I hadn't seen before.
Not anger.
Something more careful than anger.
"I want to know what you took," he said.
"I didn't take anything," I said.
"I cleaned, like you asked."
"She said you had your phone out."
"I was checking the time."
He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me.
He stopped close — closer than he needed to.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," he said.
"What did you see?"
"I saw a very nice apartment," I said.
"Crystal chandelier.
Marble floors.
Not exactly the dusty little place you described."
Something moved behind his eyes.
"You need to give me your phone," he said.
"No."
"Olivia—"
"No." I kept my voice even.
"You don't get my phone.
You don't get anything from me tonight."
His mother appeared behind him in the doorway.
She had her tea again, the cup held in both hands, watching me over the rim.
"She's being difficult, Daniel," she said.
"I'm being clear," I said.
"There's a difference."
Daniel turned back to me.
"I want those photographs deleted."
"What photographs?"
"Stop—"
"What photographs, Daniel?" I said.
"You sent me there to clean.
I cleaned.
If there's something in that apartment you're worried about, maybe you should ask yourself why it was there."
He put his hand out, palm up.
"Phone.
Now."
"No."
His hand stayed there.
His mother watched from the doorway.
The refrigerator hummed.
Nobody moved.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Something shifted in his face — a flicker of something close to panic — and he stepped back into the hallway to answer it.
I heard him say: "I told you not to call this number."
Then his voice dropped too low to follow.
His mother looked at me from the doorway.
For just a moment, the calm expression she always wore slipped slightly.
Not much.
Just enough.
"You should be careful," she said softly, "about what you think you understand."
"Thank you, Margaret," I said.
"I'll keep that in mind."
She looked at me a moment longer, then turned and walked back to her armchair.
In the hallway, Daniel's voice had gone completely silent.
I picked up my bag, walked past the doorway without looking at him, and went to the bedroom.
I locked the door.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
I plugged my phone into the charger and opened my email.
I had a contact at a law firm — a woman named Grace, who had helped me with a contract dispute two years earlier.
I had never needed to use her number for anything serious.
I typed: *I need to speak with you tomorrow.
It's urgent.
I have documents.*
I pressed send.
Then I lay back on the bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
In the living room, I heard Daniel come back inside.
I heard him say something to his mother in a low voice.
I heard her respond.
Then silence.
Then, very quietly, I heard him try the bedroom door handle.
May you like
It didn't open.
He didn't try again.
