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.