Chapter 2: The Photograph on the Table
I drove home from Baltimore with my hands shaking on the wheel.
Malcolm had said Mark's name like it meant nothing.
Like my husband was just a transaction.
I walked through the front door and found Mark sitting at the kitchen table.
Calm.
Too calm.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Out."
He nodded slowly.
Then he slid something across the table toward me.
A photograph.
Me.
Walking into Malcolm's hotel.
"You went to find him," Mark said.
"Without telling me."
My throat tightened.
"How did you know about Malcolm?"
He didn't answer.
I grabbed the photo.
"Mark.
How did you know his name?"
He stood up and walked to the window.
"Rachel called me," he said quietly.
"She said you'd been asking questions."
Rachel.
My sister had just watched my daughter collapse at her own birthday party.
And she was still making phone calls for him.
"What did you do?" I whispered.
"What did both of you do?"
He turned around.
His expression wasn't guilty.
It was careful.
"You need to stop asking questions," he said.
"For Emma's sake."
That was when I heard it.
A small sound from the hallway.
Emma's bedroom door.
Opening.
Someone was in the house who shouldn't have been.
---
What happened next made everything worse.
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