Now I understood what had kept him home.
“Is she healthy?” he asked.
Behind the maternity coats, Claire remained perfectly still.
“She’s healthy,” I said.
My voice trembled, but Damon smiled as though he assumed I was overwhelmed by the appointment.
I moved one step closer to the closet.
Every instinct in me wanted to yank the door open.
I wanted Claire to face me. I wanted Damon to explain why my best friend’s lingerie was lying under our bed while I had attended a prenatal appointment alone.
Then I noticed Damon’s phone on the mattress.
Claire had hers with her inside the closet.
If I confronted them now, they would erase their messages, call everything a misunderstanding, and coordinate their version of events before I could even contact Owen.
My only advantage was that they believed I knew nothing.
I rested one hand over my stomach.
“I feel light-headed,” I said. “Could you get me some water?”
Relief passed across Damon’s face.
“Of course.”
He turned toward the bathroom.
Keeping my phone beside my hip, I quietly took one photograph.
The camisole was visible beneath the bench. Damon’s shirt lay crumpled next to it. The corner of our disturbed bed appeared in the background.
I touched nothing.
“I’m going to sit in the nursery,” I said.
“That’s a good idea,” Damon replied too quickly.
I left without glancing toward the closet again.
Inside the nursery, I lowered myself into the chair beside the unfinished crib. My hands shook so badly that the ultrasound photo kept tapping against the wooden armrest.
A minute later, I heard the bedroom door close.
Quiet footsteps crossed the hallway.
Then the side door opened and shut.
When I went back upstairs, the camisole had disappeared. The bed had been straightened, and Damon’s shirt was no longer on the floor.
He was downstairs running water in the kitchen as though nothing had happened.
They believed they had removed every piece of evidence.
