“She’s healthy,” I said, my voice eerily steady. I didn’t tremble. I didn’t scream. Every instinct in me wanted to yank that door open, drag my best friend out by her hair, and demand why her lingerie was under my bed while I’d been looking at my child alone.
But Damon’s phone sat face-up on the mattress. Claire had hers with her inside the closet. If I confronted them now, it would be a screaming match. They would deny, deflect, erase their messages, call it a misunderstanding, and coordinate an airtight version of events before I could even reach Owen.My only advantage — my absolute power — was that they believed I was a fool.
I rested one hand over my stomach. “I feel incredibly light-headed,” I whispered, swaying just slightly to sell it. “Could you get me a glass of ice water?
From the kitchen?”
Relief, so palpable it was almost sickening, washed over Damon’s face. “Of course. Right away. Just sit down.” He turned toward the hallway, practically sprinting for the stairs.
The moment his footsteps faded, I pulled my phone from my purse. Keeping it low beside my hip, I quietly snapped one high-resolution photograph — the camisole beneath the bench, the unmade bed, the exact layout of their betrayal.
Then I did something else. I walked silently to the closet. I didn’t open it. Instead, I picked up Damon’s discarded, perfectly clean white shirt from the floor.I smoothed the collar with my thumb and draped it deliberately over the brass handle of the closet door.
A silent message. A ghost of a threat. I know you’re in there.
“I’m going to wait in the nursery,” I called toward the stairs, my voice echoing in the empty hall.
I didn’t wait for Damon’s response. The trap was set, but I needed to know exactly how deep the rabbit hole went before I burned the whole house down.
