And then there's the other secret. The card with Zachary Mercer's name, tucked into the drawer of my nightstand.
I haven't called him. Haven't even taken the card out since I hid it there. But I think about it constantly—about his knowing smile, his careful words, his offer of truths that everyone else seems determined to hide.
Some of us have been where you are. Some of us found our way out.
What did he mean by that? What does he know about my situation that I don't?
On the third morning, I wake alone again. Gabriel's side of the bed is cold, his pillow still bearing the impression of his head. He's been rising early, disappearing into his study, or leaving for meetings he doesn't explain. The distance between us grows wider with each passing hour.
I go through the motions of my morning routine—shower, dress, apply makeup to hide the exhaustion that's become permanent. The nausea is more manageable today, a low simmer rather than a violent boil, but I still can't face the thought of coffee.
Mrs. Bloom notices. Of course she notices. She's been watching me too, with concerned glances she thinks I don't see.
"Tea, miss?" she offers when I enter the kitchen. "I have a lovely chamomile that might settle your stomach."
"Thank you." I take the cup she presses into my hands, wrapping my fingers around its warmth. "Has Mr. Ambrose left already?"
"About an hour ago. He said he'd be back by lunch."
An hour ago. He didn't wake me, didn't leave a note, didn't give any indication of where he was going. The distance yawns wider.
I take my tea to the library and curl up in one of the leather chairs, trying to read a book I've been attempting for weeks. The words swim before my eyes, refusing to coalesce into meaning. My mind keeps drifting to other things—the pregnancy, Zach's card, Gabriel's strange behavior.
I'm lost in thought when my phone buzzes.
I dig it out of my pocket, expecting a text from Gabriel or perhaps Bea. Instead, the screen displays an unknown number.
My heart stutters. I know, even before I answer, who it will be.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Rivers." Zachary Mercer's voice is warm, unhurried, as if we're old friends catching up over coffee. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"How did you get this number?"
"The same way your employer got it, I imagine." A soft chuckle. "Men like us have resources, Ms. Rivers. Surely you've learned that by now."
I should hang up. I should tell Gabriel. I should do anything except sit here, heart pounding, waiting to hear what he has to say.
"What do you want?"
"Straight to the point. I appreciate that." A pause, weighted with intention. "I've been thinking about our conversation at the market. About the things I offered to share with you. Have you been thinking about them too?"
Every day. Every hour. The promise of truth, dangling just out of reach.
"I don't know what you think you can tell me that I don't already know."
"Don't you?" His voice softens, becomes almost gentle. "I think there's a great deal you don't know, Ms. Rivers. About your family. About the man you're living with. About the connections between them that no one wants you to see."
My hand tightens on the phone. "What connections?"
"That's not a conversation for the telephone. Too many ears, too many ways to be overheard." He pauses. "I'd like to meet with you again. Properly this time. Somewhere we can talk without interruption."
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. You shouldn't trust anyone, Ms. Rivers—that's the first lesson you need to learn if you want to survive in the world you've stumbled into." Another pause. "But I can offer you something no one else will: the truth. About your father. About why your mother spent your entire childhood running. About the man whose bed you've been sharing."
My father. The word lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew.
