Lies & Betrayal

He folded a shirt like it was something precious. That's what I remember most about the morning Sterling left — the way he smoothed every crease with his palms before laying it in the suitcase, careful and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn't leaving me behind.

I stood in the doorway of the master bedroom with my hand pressed flat against my stomach, feeling the baby shift. Seven months along, and I still hadn't gotten used to it — the way she moved at the worst possible moments, like she was trying to remind me she was still there. Still counting on me. I pressed back against her kick and watched Sterling zip the first bag shut.

"Florida," I said. Not a question. I'd learned a long time ago that questions only made things worse.

"Three months, maybe less." He didn't look up. He was already reaching for the second suitcase, the designer one with the gold zipper pull he'd bought himself for his birthday. "There's a deal that needs handling in person. You know how it is."

I didn't know how it was. I had never known how any of it worked — the business, the money, the trips. He kept all of that in a locked box inside himself and handed me just enough information to keep me from asking follow-up questions.

"We're almost out of formula," I said. "And I need — there are things I need from the store."

He laughed. It was a short sound, like a door closing. "Kelsey's here, isn't she? She'll look after things." He finally looked at me, that easy smile spreading across his face, and for half a second I could almost remember why I had believed him once. "You don't need to stress yourself out, Hallie. It's bad for the baby."

"Sterling, I need money. Even just a little. For groceries."

He crossed the room. He picked up my phone from the nightstand — my phone, the one my mom had given me before everything fell apart — and slid it into his jacket pocket without a word. Then he picked up the keys. Both sets. He held them for a moment like he was thinking about something, then dropped them into the same pocket.

"You don't need distractions right now," he said. "You need rest. That's the whole point." He put his hand on my cheek, cold fingers against my skin. "I'll call Kelsey when I land."

He kissed my forehead. Soft and meaningless, like pressing a stamp onto an envelope. Then he picked up both suitcases and walked past me down the hall, and I stood there listening to his footsteps on the stairs, the front door, the sound of his car starting in the driveway.

I listened until I couldn't hear the engine anymore.

The house went completely quiet after that. The kind of quiet that has weight to it.

I went to the kitchen. I don't know what I was hoping to find — a cold, sharp drop had settled in my chest, like a heavy bolt sliding home into a metal lock, while the rest of me was still standing in that doorway watching him pack. I opened the first cabinet. The second. The pantry door swung open and I stared at the shelf for a long moment.

A box of crackers, the kind with the cartoon fish on the front, half empty. A jar of peanut butter with maybe four spoonfuls left. A single can of diced tomatoes with no can opener in sight.

I closed the pantry door and stood with my back against it, my hand on my stomach again. Twelve weeks. That's what I had to get through. Twelve weeks with no phone, no keys, no money, and whatever was left in that box of crackers.

"You look like a drowned rat, by the way."

Kelsey was leaning in the kitchen doorway, ankles crossed, picking at the polish on her thumbnail. She had her platinum hair pulled up and her rose tattoo facing out like she always positioned it when she wanted you to notice it. She was looking at me the way she always looked at me — like I was something that had wandered into a place it didn't belong.

"I'm serious," she said. "Your hair. When's the last time you did anything with it?"

I turned back to the counter. I didn't have an answer that would satisfy her, and she wasn't actually asking for one.

"He told me you'd help with groceries," I said.

Kelsey laughed, that high-pitched sound that never touched her eyes. "He told you that?" She tilted her head. "That's funny. Because what he told me was to keep the house clean and stay out of drama." She pushed off the doorframe and straightened up. "I've got my own stuff, Hallie. I'm not your grocery delivery service."

"There's almost no food."

"Then you should've thought about that before you let him walk out the door." She shrugged, like it was the most reasonable thing she'd ever said, and disappeared back down the hallway. A moment later I heard her bedroom door close.

I sat down at the kitchen table. The chair scraped against the linoleum, a sudden, jagged sound like a fingernail tearing through thick paper, too loud in all that silence. I picked at the skin around my thumb without realizing I was doing it, and when I looked down there was a thin line of red where I'd torn it open.

That night I lay in the bed alone and counted her kicks. One. Two. A pause. Three.

I pressed my palm against the swell of my stomach and stared at the ceiling and tried to do the math. Twelve weeks. No money. No way out. No one who even knew to look for me.

Four. A long pause. Five.

She was still in there. Still going. I kept my hand on her and thought, okay. Okay. We just have to figure this out.

I wasn't sure I believed it. But I kept counting anyway, all the way through the dark, until I lost track of the numbers and the room went gray with early morning light outside the window.