CHAPTER 2 — Breakfast
At seven o'clock, Daniel opened the curtains.
"Good morning, beautiful."
The sunlight hurt my eyes. I let him see me wince. I let him think the pill had worked.
"I made breakfast," he said. "Your favorite."
He left the room, and I finally slid my hand under the pillow.
One message, sent at 2:14 a.m.
Claire. I heard all of it. Do NOT sign anything. Do not eat or drink anything he prepares. I am coming to the house before noon. I will not come alone. Delete this message. — H.B.
Harold Bennett. My father's attorney for thirty years. The man who had held my hand at the funeral when Daniel was in the parking lot taking a phone call.
I deleted the message. My hands were shaking.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon. Daniel had set the table with the blue plates my mother used to love. French toast. Fresh strawberries. A tall glass of orange juice already poured beside my chair.
Already poured.
"You spoil me," I said, sitting down.
"You deserve it." He kissed the top of my head. "Big day today."
"Is it?"
"Remember? Mr. Pierce is coming at eleven. Just the refinancing papers. We talked about this on Tuesday."
I didn't remember Tuesday at all.
That was the point.
"Right," I said slowly. "Refinancing."
"Lower interest rate. It'll save us a fortune. You just sign where he shows you, and then you can rest the whole afternoon."
He sat across from me and watched me pick up my fork.
I took a bite of French toast. He had made the bread, and I knew he couldn't have put anything in it without it tasting strange. I was willing to risk that.
But the juice sat there, bright and innocent.
"Drink up," Daniel said. "You need the vitamin C. Dr. Collins said so."
Dr. Collins. Another name I barely recognized.
I reached for the glass. And I let my wrist wobble, just slightly, the way it had wobbled for weeks when I truly couldn't control it.
The glass tipped.
Orange juice spread across the white tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.
"Oh no," I said. "Daniel, I'm so sorry. My hands—"
For one second, just one, I saw real anger in his eyes. It was hot and ugly.
Then it was gone.
"It's fine," he said tightly. "I'll pour you another."
"No, please. My stomach is still upset from last night. I'll just have water."
I got up before he could argue, filled a glass from the tap myself, and drank it in front of him.
He watched me the whole time.
"You seem better this morning," he said quietly.
It wasn't a compliment.
It was a warning.
"I slept well," I lied, and smiled.
Upstairs, I heard a car door slam in the driveway.
May you like
Rachel was back.
And it was only eight-fifteen.
