Chapter 4

I opened my eyes at 7:12 AM. An orange severe storm warning had already been issued on the weather app.

As Lucas picked up his backpack to leave, I caught him at the door and reminded him once more:

"Five-thirty. Wait in the lobby. No matter what happens, do not step outside."

He flashed me a quick thumbs-up. I watched him enter the elevator before closing the door.

Sean left unusually early, heading out before eight under the pretext of an urgent office matter.

I didn't ask questions.

Once he was gone, I turned on his home desktop. The password was still Lucas's birthday, unchanged for three years.

His browser history revealed visits to the real estate site for the south-side development from last Thursday at eleven at night. Bookmarked in his favorites was a folder titled Loft Interior Design Ideas.

He really was helping that intern hunt for a condo.

I snapped photos of the screen, cleared my digital footprint, and shut down the PC.

At ten in the morning, Megan called.

"Chloe, amazing news! The medical director said that if you're willing to return, you don't even need to go through the lengthy hiring process."

"They're bringing you on directly as a Senior Pathologist consultant with senior attending pay."

"He said the department still references your published research on double immunohistochemical staining."

Holding the phone, another wave of emotion caught in my throat.

The professional career I had walked away from three years ago still had a light kept on for me.

"Thank you, Megan. I'll report in next Monday."

Hanging up, I opened my notes app and compiled an inventory of the evidence gathered over the last few days:

Seventeen SnapChat screenshots, one comprehensive PayPal statement, eight joint surveillance photos, one photo of lipstick residue on his cuff, one real estate flyer, and three photos of his browser history.

I forwarded the entire package to Attorney Vance.

Vance responded almost immediately: "The chain of evidence is solid. When do you plan on confronting him?"

I typed back two words: "Tonight."

At three in the afternoon, the rain unleashed.

It wasn't ordinary rain.

It was as if the sky had split open, dumping sheets of water onto the city.

The windows blurred with heavy condensation, obscuring everything outside.

I left early.

By the time I parked outside the tutoring academy, it was only 4:40 PM—fifty minutes before Lucas's class dismissed.

I pulled into the closest parking space right across the main entrance, flicked on my hazards, and cranked the wipers to maximum speed. The world outside remained a blur.

At 4:55 PM, it happened.

A delivery scooter roared around the corner, hydroplaned violently across the slick asphalt, fish-tailed sideways, and barreled straight toward the academy's front steps.

If Lucas had been standing there, he would have taken the full impact.

In my past life, that was exactly where he had been.

The scooter smashed into the concrete pillar by the entrance. The insulated delivery bag went flying, scattering containers across the pavement.

The rider crashed hard onto the concrete, clutching his knee and groaning in agony.

Tutors and staff rushed out into the downpour to help amidst the screaming chaos.

I stared at that cracked concrete pillar, my fingernails digging into the leather of the steering wheel.

At 5:32 PM, Lucas stepped out into the building lobby.

He peeked through the glass doors at the torrential downpour and the debris scattered across the steps, frowned, and checked his phone.

My text had just delivered: Mom is in the white SUV right in front. Come straight to the passenger side.

He popped his umbrella open, jogged through the rain, and hopped into the passenger seat, bringing in a gust of cold, wet air.

"Mom, what happened out there? There's food and wreckage everywhere."

"A scooter hydroplaned into the pillar," I said, my voice steady even as my hands trembled against the wheel.

Lucas clicked his seatbelt in, looked at me, and gently covered my hand with his.

"Mom, your hands are freezing. What's going on? You've been acting so stressed lately."

I turned my hand and squeezed his fingers tightly.

"I'm fine. Now that you're in the car, everything is fine."

On the drive home, the deluge tapered off to a drizzle.

I looked in the rearview mirror at Lucas's uninjured legs. He was kicking his sneakers slightly to shake off the water droplets, carefree and whole.

He had no idea what he had just avoided.

And he never needed to know.

At seven that evening, Lucas was studying in his room.

Sean had not returned.

I called his cell. It rang eight times before he answered.

The background was loud, filled with women's giggles and commercial mall announcements.

"What do you want?" he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation.

"Just asking if you're coming home for dinner."

"No, I have client dinners. Eat without me."

I hung up, opened SnapChat, located Attorney Vance's chat, and typed:

"He should be with the intern again tonight. Vance, could you do me a favor?"

Vance replied: "Name it."

"Can you verify the visitor registration logs at the south-side loft development for the past three months? I need confirmation on whether he registered viewings under his own name."

Vance quickly agreed to look into it.

At 9:30 PM, Sean walked through the door.

He immediately headed to the bathroom, changed into fresh clothes, and came out with wet hair to sit on the couch and turn on the television.

I brought out a bowl of hot soup from the kitchen and set it on the coffee table before him.

"Have some soup. It's chilly outside."

He gave it an indifferent glance and didn't touch the spoon.

I sat down on the armchair across from him, resting my hands on my lap.

"Sean, we need to talk."

He finally looked up, his brow furrowing deeply. "Now what?"

"What is your relationship with that intern at your company?"

The air instantly went still.

On television, the sports commentator's voice blared, grating against the silence.

Within three seconds, Sean's expression shifted from shock to guilt, and finally to defensive fury.

"What the hell are you talking about? Who's feeding you nonsense?"

"Nobody told me anything." I unlocked my phone and held up the screen, flipping through the evidence one by one. "See for yourself."

SnapChat flirts, PayPal records, mall surveillance photos, and the loft floor plans.

His face drained of color, turning from red to white, and then to a sickly gray.

"You went through my phone?" He jumped up, his voice cracking with rage.

"Yes, I did," I replied evenly, neither flinching nor raising my voice.

"Your password hasn't changed in three years. Just like you arrogantly assumed I would never suspect you."

He opened his mouth, searching for something cruel to say, but looking at those undeniable screenshots, he choked on his words.

After a dozen seconds of suffocating silence, he suddenly shifted his tone, softening his posture and taking a half-step toward me.

"Chloe, you've got it all wrong. She's just a new hire at the office. I was mentoring her, that's all. Don't overthink it."

"Those texts were just harmless banter. Are you seriously making a fuss over jokes?"

"Jokes?" I pulled up the text where he had written: She's just a housewife. She doesn't have a clue. I held it right in front of his face.

His eyes flickered with shame.

"Telling her I'm just a housewife who can't control you was a joke? Touring condos with her was a joke? Sending her over seven hundred dollars in three months was a joke?"

"You complained that Lucas's tutoring was too expensive, but you bought her luxury lipsticks without batting an eye."

His lips twitched. He dropped his head, unable to meet my eyes.

The only sounds in the apartment were the sports broadcast and the ticking of the wall clock.

I stood up.

"Sean, you said I'm no different from a maid. Fine. I won't stay in this house anymore."

"I'm sure your little intern would love to be your free live-in maid."