There.
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“What exactly have you been telling him?”
“That I was having memories.”
“Memories of what?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Why him?”
She looked ashamed.
“Because he didn’t know my family.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It made him safer.”
I did not understand.
Not yet.
We went home.
Three days later, I woke and reached across the bed.
Cold sheet.
Claire gone.
Bassinet empty.
Keys gone.
I called.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Our oldest, Mason, appeared in the hallway.
“Where’s Mom?”
I stared.
“Grandma’s coming over.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to find her.”
He looked frightened.
I hated that.
I called my mother.
Then drove straight to Ethan’s studio.
Not because logic pointed there.
Jealousy did.
He was wiping down mats when I entered.
He looked up.
“Sam?”
“Where is she?”
His face changed.
“What happened?”
“Claire left.”
“With Lily.”
He put down the cloth.
“Okay.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
I stepped closer.
“How long?”
He frowned.
“How long what?”
“You and her.”
His expression shifted from confusion to disbelief.
“Oh.”
Then:
“No.”
“Don’t.”
“Sam, I have never slept with Claire.”
“Then why is she calling you about things she won’t tell me?”
He stared at me.
Then said:
“Because she was afraid you’d think she was unstable.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“She told me she was getting fragments.”
“Dreams.”
“Sounds.”
“A face.”
“She said every time she tried to talk to you, you went into problem-solving mode.”
That stung because true.
I said:
“So you know what this is?”
“Not completely.”
“But I know enough to tell you she’s not having an affair.”
“Where did she go?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Her parents.”
I almost laughed.
“Claire barely speaks to them.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
