48 that evening, when Daniel came home, twenty-seven pages lay printed on the kitchen table. Loosening his tie, he greeted the smell of dinner with, “Something smells good.”
“Chicken.”
He searched the fridge. “Where’s the mustard?”
“Second shelf.”
Once he found it, I asked, “Who is Rachel Morgan?”
He paused with the refrigerator open, barely long enough to notice. Yet the hesitation answered me before anything else did. After closing it, he said, “Claire.”
I waited while he rubbed his forehead. “You went through my phone?”
“No.”
“My email?”
“No.”
