Dominic couldn’t have done this. Right? He was with me that night. We were all at dinner together, laughing, talking, pretending everything was normal. Then we came home. The air stalls in my lungs as the thought repeats in my mind. I shake my head slightly, trying to push it away before it can grow into something worse.
Dominic wouldn’t—
My phone lights up on the console beside me, pulling me out of the spiral of thoughts.
A text message.
Dominic: Got called in for a long shift. Might be about 16 hours. I won’t be home until early morning.
I stare at the message longer than I should. The screen glows softly in the dim light of the car while the engine hums beneath me. After a moment, I lock the phone and pull into the driveway. The house greets me with the same quiet stillness as always. It feels empty, almost hollow, like the walls are holding their breath. I walk inside slowly, dropping my purse and keys onto the kitchen counter. The small clatter echoes louder than usual in the silence.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and walk over to the sink, turning on the faucet. Water rushes out in a steady stream, splashing gently against the bottom of the glass. I stare at it absently as the glass fills. And then, something shifts in my mind. A memory flickers suddenly, like a light switching on in a dark room.
Dominic leaving the house after our argument.
The door slamming.
The sound of his car driving away.
The glass slips from my hand.
It crashes into the sink, shattering against the metal.
My heart begins pounding violently in my chest.
Dominic wasn’t with me the whole night.
He left.
A tight pressure closes in, inch by inch as the realization settles in. The blood on his hands, the affair, me confronting Sophie at dinner, Dominic suddenly wanting a child.
What if—
My lungs suddenly refuse to fill. I try to inhale, but the air won’t come. Panic spreads through my chest like fire, hot and suffocating. My fingers tremble as my heart races faster and faster, beating so violently it feels like it might break through my ribs.
The room tilts slightly around me, and my vision blurs at the edges. I grip the counter, gasping for air.
Breathe.
But I can’t.
Each breath is shallow and useless, like trying to breathe through water. Something in me contracts sharp with every second that passes. I slide down onto the kitchen floor, pressing my palms against my chest as if I can physically hold my heart in place.
Minutes pass before my breathing slowly begins to steady again.
In. Out. In. Out.
My head clears just enough for another thought to surface. Dominic’s office. The locked drawer. I push myself up slowly, my legs still shaking beneath me. Opening the kitchen drawer, I grab the first tool my fingers find without even looking.
Then I head upstairs. Dominic’s office is dark when I step inside. The quiet in the room feels different somehow, heavier than the rest of the house. I walk toward his desk. The drawer is still locked. My hands tremble as I wedge the tool between the wood and the frame. I push against it, trying to force the lock loose. Nothing. I push harder. The wood creaks under the pressure.
“Come on,” I whisper under my breath.
I force the tool deeper and pull with all my strength. The drawer suddenly snaps open with a loud crack. My heart pounds as I pull it out. Inside are stacks of papers. Medical documents, hospital records, CDs labeled Xray. Doctor’s notes, patient history forms. I toss the papers aside quickly, scanning through them with shaking hands. Then something catches my eye.
A number.858-654-3210My stomach twists. I remember Marcus’s number. Printed beside it: Dr. Marcus Hale – Psychiatrist My mind flashes back to dinner.
Dominic laughing casually, waving it off like it was some old joke.He used to diagnose me with all sorts of things.At the time it sounded harmless. Just teasing between coworkers, something I didn’t think twice about. But now the words land differently.He used to diagnose me.
