Chapter 4

I went to Cynthia's place.

Cynthia was my closest friend in college, and she was the one who made it to the final round with me back in the dance company audition.

After everything happened, she gave up her spot in the company and switched to dance production.

Through the hardest years of my life, aside from Patrick, she was the one who stayed by me the most.

She opened the door, saw me, froze for just a second, asked nothing, and first set the little ramp board in place by the door.

She'd bought that ramp board for me six years ago. She'd always kept a shower chair I could use and a lower bed in her apartment.

She didn't even ask whether I wanted to eat; she went straight to the kitchen to make porridge, because she knew my stomach hurt whenever my mood took a bad turn.

Only after I was inside did I really break down and cry.

Cynthia crouched in front of me, wiping away my tears, cursing Patrick even harder than I did. "Has he lost his mind? Fern did all that to you back then, and now he actually goes and has a baby with her?"

That night, for the first time, I felt that at least one person understood just how absurd this whole thing was.

Before bed, she set the medicine and warm water on the nightstand like she always used to, worried my legs would hurt during the night, and left the little night light on in the living room.

She knew I got leg cramps easily sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, so she even dug the heat pack she'd bought six years ago out of the closet.

Those details were so familiar that I actually felt guilty for having doubted everyone earlier that day.

When I woke up around noon the next day, there was porridge and a note on the dining table.

Cynthia said she'd had to go into the office for a meeting and told me to text her when I woke up.

My phone hadn't stopped since the night before; Fern and Patrick were already near the top of the trending list.

Because no one knew Patrick and I had been married for years, the comments were almost all congratulations for "a ten-year partnership finally paying off." Some people had even cut together highlight reels of their years of stage performances, saying their child was sure to inherit both of their talents.

I read a few and then turned off my phone.

Cynthia came back in the afternoon, bringing me medicine and a change of clothes, and said that Patrick had called but she'd chewed him out and sent him packing.

I didn't think much of it.

That evening, when I was about to borrow her computer to send some materials to the lawyer, a work group chat was left open on the screen.

Someone had just posted at the top: How's Elise's mood over there?

Registration for the International Dance Festival closes Friday; don't let her go public about the marriage or the authorship dispute yet.

The person who replied below was Cynthia.

Don't worry, she's with me.

She won't be in touch with any media for the next couple of days.

I scrolled up a few screens.

The group was called "Fern's International Project Team."

Cynthia was the project director.

She came out of the kitchen carrying fruit, and when she saw the computer, her face changed at once. "Elise, let me explain."

Before I could say a word, another rehearsal video popped up in the chat.

The opening move in the thumbnail—I recognized it the instant I saw it.

It was Echo.

My new piece, the one I'd only finished last year, and the only person who'd ever seen the complete version was Patrick.

I opened the file details.

The uploader was listed by name.

Patrick James.