I found the receipts on a Tuesday morning while Roman was in the shower.

Two hotel stays. Same downtown location. Three weeks apart. Both nights he'd told me he had late sessions at the clinic and would sleep in the office rather than drive home exhausted. I remembered those nights. I'd texted him goodnight with a photo of my dinner—pasta I'd made from his mother's recipe—and he'd sent back a heart emoji and told me he loved me.

My hands shook as I photographed the receipts with my phone. Then the call log. A number I didn't recognize, appearing forty-three times over three months. Calls lasting six minutes, eighteen minutes, forty-two minutes. The most recent one was yesterday, while I was at the farmer's market buying the heirloom tomatoes he likes.

I heard the water shut off. I set his phone back on the nightstand exactly as I'd found it, screen down, charging cable at the same angle.

Roman came out in a towel, hair dark and wet. He smiled when he saw me. That smile I'd fallen in love with six and a half years ago at a charity gala where he'd asked me to dance and remembered my name three hours later when he found me at the coat check.

"Morning, sweetheart," he said. He crossed to me and kissed my forehead. His hand settled on my stomach, warm through my shirt. "How's our little one?"

"Good," I said. My voice sounded normal. I'd practiced normal my whole life. "Moving a lot last night."

"That's my kid." He grinned. "Already restless like mom."

I watched him dress. Navy shirt, grey slacks, the watch I'd given him for our fifth anniversary. Every movement easy and familiar. He hummed while he knotted his tie. Some jazz standard I couldn't name.

At breakfast he poured my orange juice and set the vitamin bottle beside my plate without being asked. He'd been doing that every morning since I'd told him about the baby.

"I was thinking," he said, buttering his toast, "if it's a girl, maybe Iris. After your grandmother."

It was the first time he'd said a name aloud. I felt something crack open in my chest.

"I'd like that," I said.

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. His wedding ring caught the light.

I smiled back.

---

I drove to Roman's clinic on Capitol Hill with the photos burning in my phone. The whole way there I rehearsed what I would say. Calm questions first. Then the evidence. I wouldn't yell. I wouldn't cry until I had answers.

The clinic occupied the second floor of a renovated brick building with big windows and clean lines. Roman had chosen the space himself. He said light mattered for healing.

The receptionist told me Roman was out on a house call but his partner was available. I said I'd wait for Atticus Crawford.

Atticus met me in a small consultation room. Mid-forties, tidy beard, expensive glasses. I'd met him at clinic events. He always asked polite questions and remembered details.

I spread the printed photos across his desk. Call logs. Hotel receipts. Dates and times.

"I need to know if my husband is having an affair," I said.

Atticus went very still. He looked at the evidence for a long time. Then he looked at me.

"Dakota," he said carefully, "you've already done this."

I blinked. "What?"

"Six months ago. You came here with different evidence. Different woman. Same situation." He pressed his fingertips together. "Roman took you into his office. You talked for forty-five minutes. When you came out, you were smiling. You asked him about your dinner reservation that night."

The room tilted.

"That's not—" My voice came out thin. "I would remember."

Atticus said nothing. His silence was an answer.

I gathered the photos with numb fingers. My hands didn't shake anymore. They felt like they belonged to someone else.

"Thank you for your time," I heard myself say.

I walked out through the waiting room. A woman sat reading a magazine. Another stared at her phone. The receptionist smiled as I passed.

I sat in my car in the parking lot. Twenty-seven minutes, according to the dashboard clock. I pressed my thumbnail into my index finger until the skin went white. The pain was small and clean and real.

Then I drove home.

---

Roman came home that evening with flowers. White roses. My favorite.

"For my beautiful wife," he said, kissing me. He set a bottle of wine on the counter. "Non-alcoholic. Found it at that place you like."

He asked how the baby was moving. I told him wonderful. He made dinner—pasta, garlic bread, salad with the tomatoes from the market. We ate at the table with candles. He told me about a patient's breakthrough. I laughed at his jokes.

That night I lay beside him in the dark. He fell asleep in minutes, one hand resting on my hip. His breathing was deep and even.

I stared at the ceiling and felt the floor I'd built my entire life on dissolve beneath me like salt in water.

I came home early with the ultrasound photos in my purse. Twenty-two weeks. The technician had printed five copies because the baby kept moving, kept showing off. I wanted to surprise Roman. I wanted to see his face light up the way it did when I told him about the pregnancy.

His car was in the driveway. The house was quiet.

I set my keys on the hall table and called his name. No answer. His office door was almost closed. A sliver of lamplight fell across the hallway floor.

I pushed the door open.

Talia was on the therapy couch. Eyes closed. Head tilted back. Her body slack in that particular boneless way I'd only seen in Roman's demonstration videos. Deep trance. She wore the same sweater she'd worn to breakfast three days ago.

Roman stood over her. His hand was on her throat. His other hand was—

The ultrasound photos slipped from my fingers. They hit the hardwood and scattered. Black and white images of our baby spinning across the floor like leaves.

Roman's eyes met mine.

For one second—just one—his face was something else. Something raw and calculating and utterly without the warmth I'd spent six and a half years believing was real.

Then it smoothed. The mask came back. Perfect and practiced.

"Dakota," he said. His voice was his therapist voice. Calm. Warm. Managing a difficult situation with professional grace. "Sweetheart, this isn't—"

I pulled the door nearly shut. My hand shook on the handle. I stood in the hallway with my back against the wall and pressed my palm flat over my mouth to keep the sound inside.

I could hear him through the door. That voice. Soft and steady and so gentle it made my stomach turn.

"You're doing beautifully, Talia. You're safe. When you wake up, you'll feel rested. Calm. You won't remember anything that happened after you closed your eyes. Just a peaceful, healing session. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

A pause.

"Good. Very good. I'm going to count backwards from five now."

I thought about calling the police. I thought about kicking the door open. I thought about screaming.

But Talia was unconscious. She had no idea what was happening to her. If I called the police now, she would wake up to strangers and cameras and questions she couldn't answer. She would wake up to the destruction of whatever fragile stability she'd built in the three months since Bodie drowned.

My family would be publicly destroyed. The Parkers, who valued reputation above almost everything. Talia's trauma would become dinner conversation and headlines.

I pressed my thumbnail into my index finger until the skin went white.

I stayed silent.

"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Eyes open, Talia."

I heard movement inside. Fabric rustling. A soft, groggy sound.

"How do you feel?" Roman asked.

"Better." Talia's voice was small and sleepy. "A little better, I think."

"That's wonderful. You're making real progress."

I walked to the kitchen. I poured a glass of water I didn't drink. I stared at the tomatoes from the farmer's market sitting in a bowl on the counter and felt the floor I'd built my entire life on dissolve beneath me like salt in water.

When Talia came out twenty minutes later, she smiled at me. A real smile. The first I'd seen since Bodie died.

"Hey," she said. "I didn't know you were here."

"Just got home." My voice sounded normal. I'd practiced normal my whole life. "How was your session?"

"Good. I feel… lighter, I guess." She hugged me. "Thank you for setting this up. Roman's really helping."

I drove her home. I held her hand at every red light. I said nothing.

---

That night I moved my pillow to the guest room. When Roman asked why, I told him pregnancy discomfort. Back pain. The baby pressing on my ribs.

"Whatever you need, sweetheart," he said. He kissed my forehead. "Just let me know if there's anything I can do."

We ate dinner on opposite ends of the table. He asked how I was feeling. I said fine. He refilled my water glass without being asked. He told me about a patient's breakthrough. I smiled at the right moments.

After dinner he washed the dishes while I dried. We moved around each other in the kitchen like dancers who'd rehearsed the steps a thousand times.

When I went to bed, he stood in the doorway of the guest room.

"Goodnight, Dakota," he said softly. "I love you."

"Love you too," I said.

I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Until I heard our bedroom door close.

Then I lay in the dark and pressed both hands over my mouth and felt everything I'd ever believed in turn to smoke.

Ten days after I moved to the guest room, Roman made dinner.

Not just any dinner. The kind he used to make when we were dating. Slow-cooked short ribs. Roasted vegetables with herbs from the garden. Fresh bread from the bakery on Pike Street that opens at five in the morning. He set the table with candles and the good plates.

I came downstairs and found him waiting. White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. That smile.

"Surprise," he said.

I looked at the table. At the flowers in the center. White roses. My favorite.

"You didn't have to do this," I said.

He pulled out my chair. "I wanted to. We've been distant lately. I miss you."

I sat. He poured wine for himself. Sparkling water for me. He asked about the baby. I told him about the kicks. He reached across the table and took my hand.

"I've been thinking," he said. "About names. What do you think of Iris?"

I'd forgotten he'd said that name before. Back when I still believed everything.

"It's beautiful," I said.

We ate. He asked about my day. I asked about his patients. He told me a story about someone's breakthrough. I laughed at the right moment. We moved through the conversation like dancers who'd rehearsed the steps a thousand times.

After dinner he suggested we sit in the living room. Just talk. Reconnect.

I followed him. He turned on the lamp in the corner. Soft light. Warm. He sat beside me on the couch. Not too close.

"I know things have been hard," he said. His voice was gentle. Careful. "With the pregnancy. With everything. I want you to feel safe. Comfortable."

I nodded.

"I was thinking," he said, "maybe we could do a relaxation session. Nothing formal. Just breathing exercises. Help you sleep better."

My heart kicked once. Hard.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm pretty tired."

"It'll only take a few minutes." He smiled. "You trust me, don't you?"

I looked at his face. At the warmth in his eyes that I now knew was a performance. At the hands that had touched Talia while she was unconscious.

"Of course," I said.

He pulled out his phone. Opened an app. A metronome. The sound filled the room. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Just close your eyes," he said. His voice dropped. Lower. Softer. That particular frequency I'd heard through his office door. "And breathe with me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

I closed my eyes.

"That's perfect. You're doing beautifully."

I breathed. In. Out. The metronome ticked. His voice wrapped around me like smoke.

"Let your shoulders drop. Let the tension go. You're safe here. You're always safe with me."

I felt myself slipping. The fog rolling in. My thoughts getting slower. Heavier.

"Good. Very good. Now I want you to imagine—"

The baby kicked.

Sharp. Sudden. Right under my ribs.

The fog tore open. I could see again. Think again. My eyes flew open for just a second.

Roman was leaning over me. His face wasn't warm anymore. It was focused. Clinical. The face of someone performing a procedure.

I closed my eyes again. Fast.

I made my breathing stay slow. Deep. I let my face go slack. I counted to three in my head. Then I blinked. Slow and confused. Like waking up from a nap.

Roman sat back. I could feel him watching me.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

I smiled. Soft and vague. "Good. Relaxed."

"Do you remember what we talked about?"

I tilted my head. Let confusion flicker across my face. "We were… having dinner?"

His shoulders dropped. Relief. Pure and obvious.

"That's right," he said. His voice was warm again. "And then you were so tired I suggested you rest for a minute."

"Oh." I touched my forehead. "I think I dozed off."

He laughed. Soft and affectionate. He reached out and touched my face. His fingers were warm. Gentle.

I memorized the sensation. Filed it under evidence.

"You should get some sleep," he said. "Real sleep. In a real bed."

"Maybe tomorrow," I said. "My back still hurts."

"Whatever you need, sweetheart." He kissed my forehead. "Can I make you pasta tomorrow night?"

I smiled. "I'd love that."

I went upstairs. I brushed my teeth. I changed into pajamas. I lay down in the guest room bed and stared at the ceiling.

Then I pulled out my phone. I searched for pinhole cameras. Wireless. Motion-activated. Reviews sorted by highest rated.

I added three to my cart.

I checked out with overnight shipping.

Then I pressed my hands over my stomach and felt my baby move. Alive. Awake. The thing that saved me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Downstairs, I heard Roman moving through the house. Turning off lights. Locking doors. Going through his nightly routine like everything was fine.

I closed my eyes and started planning.