Pretend I’m your husband,” he whispered urgently, pulling me into a situation I didn’t understand. In that moment, everything shifted, and I realized my mother’s d🇪ath hadn’t been an accident at all but something far more deliberate.
The first time he grabbed my hand, I didn’t think—my body reacted before my mind could catch up, a sharp pulse of instinct rising straight from my chest to my palm, and if he hadn’t leaned in so quickly, his voice low and urgent in a way that didn’t match the calm expression on his face, I probably would have slapped him hard enough to draw attention from every table in Marlene’s Diner.
“Don’t,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just enough to feel real but not enough to hurt. “Please. Just play along. You’re not safe.”
It’s strange, the things you notice in moments like that. Not the words themselves—those take time to sink in—but the details around them. The way the bell over the diner door kept swinging even after it had stopped ringing, the way Marlene paused mid-step behind the counter with a coffee pot in hand, the way Victor Dane’s eyes narrowed just a fraction too late.
That was the real reason my heart started pounding.
