You seem tense,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring, the tone he used when he was explaining investment portfolios to anxious clients. “Did the clinic have a rough afternoon?”
“Just busy,” I said, stepping away to reach for a colander in the lower cabinet. “We had some scheduling issues.”
Gregory adjusted his silver cufflinks, sliding the left one into place with a practiced, deliberate motion of his thumb.
“We should look at the bank statements tonight,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Get everything aligned for the end of the year.”
I looked at his hands, at the polished silver of his links, and then up to his face. His eyes were perfectly calm, filled with the easy confidence of a man who managed millions of dollars of other people’s money.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked, my voice clipping the words short.
“Very productive,” he said, adjusting his right cuff now. “A lot of planning for the new quarter. Nothing we cannot handle.”
“Good,” I said, setting the colander in the sink. “I will be right down. I need to wash my face.”
I walked up the stairs, my feet heavy on the carpet, and went back into the master bedroom. I closed the door behind me and walked over to the dresser, my eyes drawn back to the open mahogany box.
I stared at the empty velvet slot in the secret compartment, realizing my home was no longer private.
I pulled the fitted sheet off the far corner of our mattress, the elastic snapping loud against the mahogany bedpost.
Gregory stood near the dresser, sliding his arms into a freshly ironed white shirt. The autumn light coming through the bedroom window was thin and gray.
I reached for the pillowcase on his side of the bed.
As I pulled the cotton cover off, three long, bright blonde strands of hair clung to the fabric. They glinted in the morning light, stark against the white weave.
