He listened.
“I hate that I still need you.”
She touched his hand.
“I spent three years building my life around yours.”
There it was.
Building her life around his.
Not with.
Around.
“You walk into a room and everybody moves.”
“Do you know what it’s like standing beside that?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Nobody asks who I am.”
“They ask what I’m wearing.”
“They ask when we’re getting married.”
“They ask whether you bought my jewelry.”
The hospitalized man felt something complicated.
Not sympathy enough to forgive.
Understanding enough to see the shape of resentment.
She had chosen him.
But perhaps she had also slowly begun hating what choosing him turned her into.
She leaned closer.
“I should’ve left.”
Yes.
He thought it.
You should have.
Instead, she whispered:
“But leaving means leaving with what you gave me.”
“Not what I earned.”
There was the poison.
Entitlement disguised as justice.
She kissed his cheek.
Then stood.
At the door, she stopped.
For one second, she looked back.
The hospitalized man wondered whether she might change course.
Confess.
Call police.
Warn him.
She did none of those things.
She left.
The housekeeper entered fifteen minutes later.
This time she carried no flowers.
Only fresh linens.
She closed the door.
The hospitalized man opened his eyes.
“She’s scared.”
The housekeeper nodded.
“I noticed.”
“Of the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
The hospitalized man watched her.
“How?”
“She asked me something yesterday.”
“What?”
“Whether I had seen the lawyer inside the penthouse recently.”
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“Was that true?”
“Yes.”
The housekeeper placed linens on the chair.
“Then she asked if he had ever gone into your office.”
The hospitalized man frowned.
“Why would she care?”
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“But I found something.”
He almost laughed.
“You keep doing that.”
She smiled weakly.
“People leave things behind.”
“What?”
The housekeeper removed a photograph from her pocket.
Not paper.
Her phone.
She opened an image.
A small black flash drive sat inside a drawer.
The hospitalized man recognized the drawer.
His penthouse office.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why photograph it?”
“Because it wasn’t there before.”
He stared.
“You clean my office drawers?”
“I dust around them.”
“Not inside.”
She looked offended.
“I don’t snoop through your private desk.”
Fair.
She continued.
“The drawer was partly open yesterday.”
“I went to close it.”
“The drive was sitting on top of your personal stationery.”
“Someone wanted it found.”
The hospitalized man studied the image.
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Police know?”
“Yes.”
The detective had instructed her to photograph but not remove unfamiliar objects unless necessary for immediate safety.
The hospitalized man nodded.
The housekeeper lowered the phone.
“I’m scared.”
That was the first time she said it directly.
He looked at her.
“I know.”