Chapter 5
The heavy oak door connecting the mudroom to the kitchen swung open, and Tucker stepped into the room with his briefcase already balanced in one hand and his wet umbrella in the other.
He stopped short, his eyes flicking from Felicity to Brianne, a quick, boyish grin breaking through the exhaustion on his face.
"Well, look at this," he said, setting the umbrella in the porcelain stand by the door with a dull thunk. "The two favorite women in my life, drinking my wine before I even clear the threshold. I see how the hierarchy works when I'm not around."
"Don't flatter yourself, Tucker," Brianne said, her laugh quick and melodic as she swung her stool around to face him. "We were actually just discussing your genetic inability to throw away bread ties. Felicity was about to evict your silver dish from the counter."
Tucker chuckled, dropping his briefcase on the floor and walking over to press a brief kiss to Brianne’s cheek before turning to Felicity.
His hand found the small of Felicity's back, a warm, heavy weight that usually made her lean into him, but tonight she remained perfectly straight, her muscles locked beneath the slate silk of her blouse.
"Don't let her bully you, Lissy. That dish is a family heirloom. It has jurisdictional immunity."
"It’s fine," Felicity said, her voice dropping into a quiet, rhythmic register as she turned back to the stove.
She used a pair of tongs to check the pork, focusing entirely on the sizzle of the meat against the pan, trying to drown out the sudden, erratic drumming in her ears. "Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready."
"Five minutes," he promised, giving her hip an affectionate squeeze before heading toward the stairs.
The dinner itself was an exercise in the comfortable, well-worn geometry of their shared history.
They sat at the dark walnut table, the overhead chandelier dimmed low to cast soft, golden pools over the porcelain plates and the deep red of the Pinot Noir Tucker had opened to match the pork.
Brianne dominated the conversation for the first twenty minutes, detailing a dry, agonizingly complex dispute between her compliance team and a senior trader who had tried to bypass a disclosure form.
Tucker listened with the intense, narrow focus he reserved for legal strategy, interrupting only to offer sharp, tactical advice or to laugh at Brianne’s sharp-tongued descriptions of their corporate colleagues.
"He actually tried to claim the email was an automated draft," Brianne said, leaning forward, her fork hovering over her potatoes.
"I looked at him and said, 'Michael, automated drafts don't usually include three typos and a passive-aggressive sign-off about your vacation days. ' He turned the color of a radish."
"It’s the arrogance," Tucker said, shaking his head as he reached for the wine bottle. "The second a guy makes partner, he thinks the rules of evidence suddenly become optional. You should have flagged the compliance committee immediately."
"Oh, I did," Brianne said with a slow, satisfied smile. "I copied the managing director before he even left the conference room."
Felicity watched them over the rim of her glass.
From the outside, it was a beautiful scene—a supportive husband, a brilliant childhood friend, a warm meal in a house hidden away from the noise of the world.
But as she listened to the rhythmic volley of their dialogue, her mind kept slipping backward, navigating the dark shelves of the living room bookcase where The Inconvenient Wife lay tucked away out of sight.
Husbands leave trash on counters, and wives spend fifty years trying to find a pretty container to hide it in. Tucker’s words from the night before echoed in her mind, perfectly mirroring Brianne’s casual observation about his father's copper bowl.
It was just an anecdote, she told herself.
A piece of family lore that Brianne had absorbed over twenty-five years of being a fixture in the Sanderson family.
It was completely logical that Brianne would recognize the habit.
It was completely logical that an author writing a domestic thriller would include a detail about a messy husband.
But why did the two lines feel so entirely identical?
"Lissy?"
Tucker’s voice pulled her back to the table. He was looking at her, his fork resting against the edge of his plate, his brows slightly knit. "You haven't touched your pork. Is it too dry?"
"No, it's perfect," Felicity said quickly, forcing her hand to lift her fork and take a small, neat bite. The meat was tender, rich with garlic and rosemary, but it tasted like ash in her mouth. "I'm just a little tired, I think. The wind kept me up last night."
"The wind?" Brianne asked, her blue eyes turning toward Felicity with a look of quiet, focused concern. "Is it really that loud out here? I always thought the trees would break the draft."
"They creak," Felicity said softly, keeping her gaze fixed on her plate. "Sometimes it sounds like someone is walking along the deck."
"It's just the pine branches," Tucker said, his tone dropping into that smooth, slightly patronizing register he used whenever her anxieties surfaced in front of company. He offered Brianne a small, conspiratorial smile across the table. "I’ve been telling her for six months that we need to hire the landscapers to clear the perimeter, but she likes the privacy. Then the first storm hits, and she’s convinced we’re being besieged by a lumberjack. "
Brianne let out a soft, sympathetic chuckle, but her eyes remained on Felicity, steady and unblinking. "Well, isolation takes some getting used to, Tucker. Especially after the city. If I didn't hear a car horn every ten minutes, I’d probably start checking the locks twice too."
"Oh, she doesn't check them twice," Tucker laughed, taking a long sip of his wine. "She has the automated panel do it for her. If a stray cat walks within ten feet of the mudroom door, my phone gets an alert at three in the morning."
"It’s a good system," Felicity murmured, her voice tight.
"It’s an expensive system," Tucker corrected gently, though there was a small, sharp edge of real irritation beneath his smile—the kind of microscopic marital friction that usually stayed hidden behind closed doors.
"Anyway, let’s talk about something more pleasant.
Did you bring the plum tart, Bree? I've been thinking about that crust since Tuesday. "
"Of course I did," Brianne said, rising from her chair with an easy, fluid grace. "I’ll go get it. Lissy, do you want me to clear the plates while I'm up?"
"No, sit," Felicity said, standing up before Brianne could move past her. "I'll handle the plates. You two stay here."
She gathered the porcelain dishes, her movements slightly too fast, the silverware rattling against the glaze with a sharp, metallic ring that felt loud in the dining room. She carried the stack into the kitchen, the concrete floor cool against her slippers, and set them down next to the sink.
She stood there for a moment, her hands resting on the edge of the quartz island, her eyes instinctively dropping to the silver dish.
The two green twist-ties were gone. In their place sat a small, square slip of yellow paper—a cash register receipt from a transit kiosk in the city, folded into a neat, tight triangle.
Felicity reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfolded the paper.
It was a receipt from the Grand Central newsstand, dated Tuesday morning at 8:12 AM. Item purchased: Trade Paperback. Total: $16.99.
Tuesday morning. Tucker had been in the city on Tuesday. But when she had asked him about the book, he had looked her dead in the eye and told her he had never seen it before in his life.
She stared at the triangle of paper, her chest heaving as the low, familiar murmur of Tucker and Brianne's laughter drifted from the dining room, sounding incredibly distant, like a broadcast coming from another house entirely.