Chapter 2: Wet Hands, Packed Clothes, and the Phone Still Recording
Nora did not stand when I reached for her. She looked at the basin first, then at me, as if the order mattered. Her hands came out of the warm water slowly. Droplets ran along her wrists and disappeared into the damp fabric of her dress. The skin across her fingers was tight and pale, the joints swollen enough that her wedding ring pressed hard into them.
I crouched beside her and held out my hand without pulling. After a moment, she placed one wet hand in mine.
The basin sat between us, bright and ordinary beneath the sitting-room light. A folded towel rested on the floor beside it. The water had gone cloudy. I could see the faint red mark where the metal rim had pressed against her knees.
Behind us, Evelyn remained in the armchair. She had not moved since I entered, except to straighten one sleeve. Her posture made the room feel arranged around her, as if the furniture and the humiliation were both parts of a household routine she expected to control.
Nora got to her feet with my support. She was steady for two seconds, then shifted her weight and gripped my forearm. I felt the effort travel through her body. The wet dress clung to her legs. Her breathing shortened, not dramatically, but enough for me to notice.
I picked up the towel and wrapped it around her hands. I did not ask permission before touching her again. I waited until she nodded, then loosened the ring from her finger and placed it in the towel's fold. The smallest movement had left a deep impression in her skin.
At the doorway, Ryan stood with his phone lowered near his thigh. The screen was dark, but the small indicator at the top remained lit. His thumb hovered over the side of the device. He looked from the phone to Evelyn, then to me.
I could not tell whether he had stopped recording.
That uncertainty followed us up the stairs.
Nora kept one hand on the rail and the other wrapped in the towel. I stayed half a step below her, close enough to catch her if she slipped, far enough not to crowd her. The house smelled faintly of furniture polish and warm water. Each stair creaked beneath us. From the sitting room came no apology, no explanation, only the soft scrape of the basin being moved across the floor.
At the upstairs bedroom, Nora pushed the door open with her shoulder. She went directly to the dresser and pulled out a small canvas bag. Her fingers struggled with the zipper. I took the bag, opened it, and held it while she placed a few items inside: folded clothes, a charger, toiletries, and a thin envelope from the back of the drawer.
She paused over the envelope.
I saw her thumb press against its edge before she put it in the bag. I did not ask what it contained. Her expression had closed, and I understood that forcing the question would make the room belong to someone else again.
I moved to the closet and took down a pair of shoes, a sweater, and a coat. Nora watched me choose them. When I held up the coat, she nodded. She could move, but she was moving carefully now, conserving herself.
The phone remained in my mind. So did the basin downstairs. Whatever Ryan had captured, it might show only a fragment: Nora kneeling, Evelyn seated, my bag of pastries on the floor. It might show more. It might already be somewhere beyond the house.
I lifted the canvas bag and gave it to Nora instead of carrying it. She accepted it with both hands.
Downstairs, Evelyn's chair creaked.
Nora and I reached the landing. At the bottom of the stairs, Evelyn stood beside the silver basin, one hand resting on its rim. Ryan was near the front hall, phone still in his hand. The front door waited behind him, closed, with the lock turned.
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I put my hand on the banister and started down. Nora followed.
We had not yet left, but we were moving toward the door, carrying almost nothing, while the recording and Evelyn's version of the room remained inside the house with us.
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