Clare was a forensic pathologist. Her entire career revolved around detecting tiny abnormalities that ordinary people could easily miss.
Where I saw an untidy room, Clare noticed patterns.
Where I saw stains, she saw evidence.
And where I saw a husband who was excessively devoted to cleaning, she saw something that made every instinct in her body react.
It happened on a Sunday morning.
At exactly 7:00 AM, Ethan’s phone began buzzing repeatedly.
He stiffened.
After muttering something about a construction crisis, he grabbed his things and disappeared.
Thirty minutes later, Clare casually excused herself to use our master bathroom.
Thirty seconds after that, the peaceful quiet of the house was shattered.
It wasn’t a scream.
It was my name, spoken in a quiet, breathless whisper that sent an icy chill down the staircase.
“Natalie.”
I hurried upstairs and found Clare standing motionless just outside the bathroom.
Every bit of warmth had vanished from her face.
