"Of course," Diane insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction, her glance briefly flitting away before settling back on Angela's distraught face.
The room seemed to contract around them, the air thick with the weight of unspoken fears and uncertainty.
Angela's fingers clenched into fists, nails digging crescents into her palms. She drew a deep breath, the air seemingly reluctant to enter her lungs.
"Mom," she said, voice steadying like iron forged in fire, "I need you to listen to me—really listen."
Diane's posture shifted, a fortress of resistance waning. Her eyes, once guarded, softened under Angela's earnest gaze. "I am listening, Angie. I’ve been listening all this time."
"Will is hiding things from me, and I can feel it eating away at me every day." Each word Angela spoke was deliberate and measured, carving out her reality. "It's more than just missed dinners or distant looks. I'm scared, Mom."
The confession hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Diane's hand fluttered to her chest where a gold locket lay—a relic she had inherited from her own mother.
"Angela," Diane began, her voice now a whisper betraying inner turmoil, "If that’s what’s going on, then you need to figure out what you want to do about it."
"I don’t know how—" Angela started, but the question died on her lips. The admission was a gut punch, her worst fears inching toward truth.
"Confrontation has never been our way, has it?" Diane's eyes flickered with something ancient, a history of untold stories.
"No," Angela agreed, her response a mirror of recognition. "But silence hasn't protected us either, has it? I mean, Dadcheated, didn’t he? I remember you telling me about it. That’s why you two divorced before he died."
Diane's face, usually an unreadable canvas, crumpled slightly at the edges. "No, darling. Perhaps not. I will say that I’ve also noticed him being a little distant the past few times I’ve been over here for dinner. I don’t want to jump to conclusions as it could be many things. But I understand your worry."
Angela's heart, already leaden, sank deeper into the abyss of doubt and fear. If Diane had noticed, then the veil of normalcy they'd clung to was nothing but thin threads, ready to tear.
"Thank you," Angela whispered, the words a lifeline thrown across the chasm growing within her family. "For seeing it too."
---
The front door clicked shut behind Diane. Angela lingered on the porch, watching as her mother's car pulled away, the hum of the engine fading into the evening air. Their eyes had locked moments before, a silent exchange that spoke volumes; she could trust her mother’s support; they were in this together now.
Angela turned, her gaze falling upon the house that once promised perpetual sanctuary. Now, it whispered secrets. She steeled herself, her jaw set, and crossed the threshold with a deliberateness that echoed through the empty hallway.
Inside, the quiet was a living thing, pulsing with the heartbeat of the unknown. She allowed herself a moment, just one, to feel the weight of her resolve settle into her bones. Then, she moved.
Her steps were measured and determined as she ascended the staircase. Each creak of the wooden steps matched the rhythm of her quickening pulse. At the top, she paused, handresting on the cool banister, and drew a deep breath. This was strategic warfare within her own walls, and she needed a plan.
In the sanctuary of their bedroom, Angela paced, her thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and suspicion. She opened a drawer, fingers brushing over Will's neatly folded shirts, and closed it again. Too obvious.
"Think," she muttered to herself.
She visualized Will's daily routines, his habits, and the slight deviations that had begun to form an unsettling pattern. The late-night phone calls he dismissed with a wave, the unexplained absences, the receipts from local restaurants left carelessly in his pockets—a trail if one knew how to look.
Her eyes fell upon his study, a room filled with the musk of old books and leather—a place where he spent hours under the guise of work. It was there she would start her search. A surge of adrenaline propelled her forward.
"Carefully," she reminded herself.
At the study door, Angela's hand hesitated on the knob. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a prisoner seeking escape. She pushed the door open.
"You need to know. You need to find out the truth," she whispered into the silence.
With meticulous precision, Angela began her quest. She hurried to the computer and turned it on. She checked his emails but found nothing, then checked the internet search history—only to find it scrubbed clean.
She stared at it, startled.
"Who cleans their internet history if they don’t have anything to hide?" she noted with a frown.
A floorboard creaked somewhere, the sudden sound slicing through the tense atmosphere. Angela froze, her breath caught in her throat. Was it Will? No, it was way too early. Still, caution was her ally.
