Chapter 2 - The Woman in Navy Silk
I ran toward the elevator.
The doors closed before I reached it.
I hit the button.
Nothing.
“Hannah.”
Susan's voice came from behind me.
I turned slowly.
Robert looked confused.
Susan did not.
That distinction mattered.
“What did she mean?”
Susan folded her arms.
“I don't know.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“She is terrified.”
“So am I.”
“You don't look terrified.”
“I learned a long time ago that looking frightened doesn't make an emergency easier.”
Robert stepped between us.
“What exactly did Khloe say?”
I watched Susan.
“Ask Susan.”
Robert turned toward his wife.
Susan looked away.
There it was.
Not proof.
But recognition.
I moved closer.
“You knew Nate was at her apartment before the hospital called me.”
“No.”
“Then why did you arrive with Khloe?”
Robert's eyes narrowed.
Susan said nothing.
I continued.
“Who called you?”
“Khloe.”
“When?”
“Around three-thirty.”
“And she told you what?”
“That Nathaniel was being taken to Northwestern.”
“Did she tell you why he was at her apartment?”
Susan's jaw tightened.
“She said he had been working.”
“And you believed that?”
“This isn't my marriage.”
“No. It's mine.”
A transporter passed us.
I waited.
Then I said, “Did you know about them?”
Robert stared at Susan.
She exploded.
“There is no them!”
Too fast.
Too loud.
Robert took one step backward.
I didn't move.
“I didn't say there was.”
Susan realized her mistake.
“Hannah—”
My phone vibrated.
Critical care.
Nathaniel had been moved upstairs.
I went immediately.
Whatever personal disaster was waiting could wait until I knew he was stable.
The ICU room was dim.
Nathaniel looked smaller in a hospital bed than he ever had standing beside me.
Monitor leads crossed his chest.
An IV pump delivered controlled potassium replacement.
Another line carried fluids.
His rhythm had improved significantly.
I stood beside him.
For eight years, I had slept next to this man.
I knew the scar on his shoulder from a high-school football injury.
I knew he hated mustard.
I knew he pretended not to cry at movies and always cried anyway.
I knew how he took his coffee.
I knew the exact way his hand reached across the mattress when he was half asleep.
And apparently I did not know where he spent his nights.
I touched his hand.
It was warm.
“You're going to live,” I whispered.
I wasn't sure whether it was a promise or an accusation.
Dr. Harris entered with an intensivist named Dr. Patel.
We reviewed Nathaniel's condition.
The response to fluids was encouraging.
Potassium replacement was working.
Repeat imaging showed no evidence supporting the catastrophic surgical diagnosis that had frightened everyone downstairs.
There would be no emergency operation.
Susan had nearly pressured me into authorizing an unnecessary invasive procedure because everyone had allowed the most frightening possibility to become the only possibility.
When the physicians left, I stayed.
Nathaniel stirred shortly after six.
His eyelids moved.
“Hannah?”
I leaned closer.
“I'm here.”
His eyes opened.
Confusion came first.
Then recognition.
Then fear.
Not relief.
Fear.
“Where am I?”
“Hospital.”
He swallowed.
“What happened?”
“You collapsed.”
His eyes closed.
“At work?”
There it was.
The lie came automatically.
“No.”
His eyes opened again.
I waited.
“At Khloe's apartment.”
His monitor accelerated.
I watched the rhythm.
Then his face.
“Hannah—”
“Don't.”
“It's not what you think.”
“I haven't told you what I think.”
“She needed help.”
“At three in the morning?”
“With work.”
“The Lakeshore project?”
His face changed.
Khloe had used the same story.
Apparently they had rehearsed badly.
“Nate, that project closed.”
He looked toward the door.
“Where's my mother?”
That question interested me more than it should have.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“About what?”
He pulled weakly at the blanket.
“Hannah, please.”
I leaned toward him.
“You were severely dehydrated. Your potassium was dangerously low. A neighbor heard you pounding on Khloe's wall more than an hour before she called an ambulance.”
His eyes widened.
“She waited?”
“You tell me.”
“I don't remember.”
“You shouted for someone to call your wife.”
He closed his eyes.
“What happened in that apartment?”
“I don't know.”
“Why were you there?”
Silence.
“Nate.”
“I can't.”
Not I don't remember.
Not nothing happened.
I can't.
I stood.
His hand grabbed mine.
Weakly.
“Don't leave.”
“Then tell me.”
He stared at me.
For one second, I saw the man I married.
Terrified.
Ashamed.
Cornered.
Then he whispered:
“My mother knows.”
I removed my hand.
“Knows what?”
Before he could answer, the door opened.
Susan stood there.
Her face went white when she realized Nathaniel was conscious.
Nate stared at her.
“Mom.”
Susan didn't move.
Nathaniel's voice cracked.
“You promised me she'd never find out.”
Robert appeared behind Susan.
“What wouldn't Hannah find out?”
Nobody answered.
Then Nathaniel's phone began vibrating inside the belongings bag beside his bed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I looked down.
A message preview appeared on the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Susan saw it too.
I picked up the phone.
The message contained a photograph.
Nathaniel.
Khloe.
And Susan.
All three were standing inside Khloe's apartment.
The timestamp was 12:41 A.M.
More than two hours before the ambulance was called.
May you like
Underneath the photograph were six words:
SHE KNOWS WHY HE WAS THERE.
