Chapter 2
Margaret moved me to the bedroom before the clinic arrived.
She called it rest. Daniel called it safety. I called it being placed where they could watch the door.
They settled me on the bed with pillows behind my back and a glass of water on the nightstand. My light-colored dress had been changed for a robe, but the blood remained beneath my nails. The cut on my palm opened whenever I flexed my fingers.
A woman from the nearby clinic came with a canvas bag. She asked questions while Daniel stood behind her.
“How did you fall?”
“The balcony gave way,” Daniel said.
The woman looked at me.
I looked at Daniel's reflection in the window. He had gone still.
“I fell,” I said.
It wasn't a lie. It simply wasn't the whole truth.
She examined my hands and asked about the baby. I answered what I could. When she asked whether I felt safe, Daniel's reflection shifted toward the door.
The question stayed between us.
“I need water,” I said.
The clinic worker gave me a long look, then wrote something on her pad. “If you feel dizzy or have worsening pain, go in immediately.”
“I will.”
After she left, Margaret removed the glass from my nightstand.
“You're not to walk around,” she said.
“I need the bathroom.”
“Call someone.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Daniel.”
I watched her close the bedroom door. The latch clicked softly.
For several minutes, I listened to footsteps moving through the hall. Cabinets opened. Drawers slammed. Daniel spoke in a low voice, but I couldn't make out the words.
I pushed the blanket aside.
The trip to the writing desk took longer than it should have. My back hurt, and one hand had to remain against the wall. The bedroom looked different from that angle. The broken balcony doors were partly covered by a sheet. Dust marked the floor where they had carried me. A thin line of blood led from the bed to the rug.
At the blue writing desk, I knelt carefully.
The bottom drawer stuck.
I pulled once. Nothing.
I pulled again, using both hands, and the drawer came open with a dry wooden crack.
There were old receipts, folded stationery, two fountain pens, and a stack of envelopes tied with fading string. I moved them aside.
The back corner held a flat envelope sealed with dark red wax.
My name was written across it.
Emily.
I stared at the handwriting. I had seen it on birthday checks, notes left beside Daniel's coffee, and the few messages Richard had sent me before he died. The letters leaned forward, as if they were always moving toward an answer.
My fingers shook as I lifted the envelope.
It wasn't the will. It was a photocopy of a page, folded twice. At the bottom was Richard's signature and a date written three months before his death.
The page named me as the person responsible for making a specific provision for my child.
Not Daniel. Not Margaret.
Me.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I shoved the page beneath my robe and turned.
Daniel stood just inside the bedroom.
He looked at the open drawer first. Then at my face.
“You shouldn't be out of bed.”
“I dropped something.”
“What?”
“My patience.”
He almost smiled, but stopped himself. “You need to understand how serious this is.”
“I do.”
“You fell from a balcony.”
“And you cut the curtain.”
His jaw tightened. “I cut it because the fabric was failing.”
“You could have pulled me up.”
“I was trying to reach you.”
“Rosa reached me.”
His silence was answer enough.
He came farther into the room. I backed against the desk, keeping the folded page pressed beneath the robe.
“Where's Rosa?” I asked.
“Resting.”
“Is she being treated?”
“She's being difficult.”
“She has injured fingers.”
“She'll be fine.”
I looked at the knife-shaped outline in his pocket. “You should leave.”
The words seemed to surprise him more than the fall had.
Daniel glanced toward the bed, then back at me. “This is my house.”
“It was Richard's house.”
A muscle moved near his cheek.
For the first time, I saw fear beneath the calculation. It vanished quickly, but not before I recognized it.
He stepped toward me.
I raised my injured hand. “Don't.”
He stopped.
The boundary held.
A car door shut somewhere beyond the windows. Margaret's voice rose in the hall, sharp and controlled. Daniel turned toward it.
“What did you take?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He knew I was lying. I knew he knew.
When he left, I waited until his footsteps faded. Then I unfolded the page again.
At the bottom, beneath Richard's signature, someone had written in blue ink:
The original is not in this house.
I found a phone number on the reverse side. No name. Just a county exchange and seven digits.
I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and used my own phone with the sound turned off. My hands made three mistakes before I entered the number.
A message appeared asking who I was.
I typed: I have Richard's page. I need to know where the original is.
Before I could send it, someone tried the bathroom handle.
“Emily?” Daniel called.
I sent the message.
Then I flushed the toilet and unlocked the door.
He stood in the hall with Margaret behind him.
“Back to bed,” Margaret said.
I walked past them without answering.
Daniel caught my wrist.
Not hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to remind me he could.
I looked down at his hand until he let go.
“I sent something,” I said.
His face emptied.
“What did you send?”
“A question.”
He moved in front of the stairs. “You're staying upstairs.”
It wasn't a request.
Behind him, Margaret closed the hall window. The room darkened by one shade.
I returned to the bed because I needed time, not because he had won.
May you like
The reply came six minutes later.
Don't trust anyone inside the house. Meet me at the county road before dark.
