Chapter 15
By Thursday morning, the physical architecture of the house seemed to have shifted by a fraction of an inch, just enough to make Felicity misjudge the distance between her hip and the edge of the quartz island.
She stood in her robe, her fingers trembling as she measured out two precise tablespoons of coffee grounds.
She was not sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, the dark font of the text thread with Brianne burned against her eyelids.
"Lissy," Tucker’s voice was low, heavily modulated as he stepped into the kitchen. He had his leather briefcase in one hand, but he didn't set it down by the mudroom bench. He set it directly on the counter, a barrier between them. "We need to talk about the middle of the night."
Felicity swallowed, her throat dry. "I told you, Tucker. I didn't send that message. Someone is accessing my cloud account, or someone was in the house?—"
"No one was in the house, Lissy," he interrupted gently, his tone dropping into that smooth, agonizingly patient legal register that made her feel as though she were being read her rights.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, amber plastic bottle, setting it on the white quartz with a dull clink.
"I called my cousin, Dr. Reynolds yesterday from the office. I knew you wouldn’t be willing to go see someone on your own, but I told him about the sleepwalking, the text messages, the obsession with this paperback. "
Felicity stared at the bottle. The label read: Lorazepam. Take one tablet at bedtime as needed.
"You called your cousin about me?" she whispered, her voice cracking as she backed away until her spine hit the cupboard doors. "Without asking me?"
"I called my cousin who is a doctor. I’m trying to protect you," Tucker said, his handsome face tightening with a mixture of defensive frustration and genuine, cold concern.
"Mark called me again last night. Apparently, you emailed Chloe at four in the morning asking if she knew any private investigators who specialized in digital forensics.
Lissy, you're building a file against your own life.
Dr. Reynolds agrees that the understimulation from leaving your job, combined with the isolation out here, has triggered a severe anxiety spiral.
These will help you sleep. Truly sleep. Without the episodes. "
The episodes. He had already named it. He had categorized her terror as a medical condition.
"I won't take them," she said, her hands flying to the pockets of her robe.
"Just think about it," Tucker sighed, looking at his watch with a practiced, weary efficiency. "Brianne is taking the early afternoon train up today to help you clear out the guest room closet for the gala storage. Talk to her. She’s worried about you, too. We all are."
He picked up his briefcase, pressed a cold, lingering kiss to her temple, and left. The mechanical hiss of the deadbolt sliding into place felt less like a security measure and more like a chemical restraint.
Brianne arrived at two o'clock, her signature jasmine perfume preceding her into the foyer like a sweet, suffocating cloud. She was wearing an oversized beige knit sweater and leggings, her blonde hair pulled into a loose, messy bun that made her look entirely approachable, entirely dependable.
"Oh, honey," Brianne murmured, immediately wrapping Felicity in a long, tight embrace. She pulled back, her sharp blue eyes scanning Felicity’s pale face and dark under-eye circles with an expression of profound sorrow.
"Tucker told me about the prescription. He was so upset on the phone, Lissy. He feels like he’s failing you out here. "
"He isn't failing me. He isn't listening to me," Felicity said, her voice small as she led the way up the floating staircase to the guest room.
The guest room closet was a deep, walk-in space where they stored extra winter duvets and seasonal linens.
Felicity reached up to pull down a heavy plastic storage bin, her movements mechanical, her mind drifting to chapter thirteen of The Inconvenient Wife.
In the book, the wife had found her wedding album ruined, the pages slashed with a razor blade, though her husband insisted she must have done it herself during one of her nightly fugue states.
"Let me get that," Brianne said, stepping into the closet beside her. Her long, manicured hand reached up, her fingers brushing against Felicity’s arm.
As Brianne pulled the heavy bin down, the corner of the plastic caught the edge of a small wicker basket on the top shelf. The basket tipped forward, cascading its contents across the hardwood floor with a sharp, clattering racket.
Felicity flinched, stepping backward, her eyes dropping to the floor.
Resting between two folded white pillowcases was a small, silver velvet jewelry pouch. It was open. Spilling out onto the dark wood were three heavy, rusted iron screws and a single, jagged shard of green glass from a broken wine bottle.
Felicity’s breath stopped completely.
In chapter fourteen, which she had read just last night, the fictional wife had discovered a collection of sharp, dangerous debris hidden inside her linen closet—a detail the husband later used to prove to her family that she was hoarding hazards to harm herself.
"Oh, matching clutter," Brianne said with a soft, melodic chuckle, bending down to gather the iron screws into her palm.
She looked up at Felicity, her expression perfectly sweet, but her eyes remained entirely still, unblinking.
"Tucker is so careless when he clears out his pockets.
He must have just dumped his spare hardware in here. "
"No," Felicity whispered, her voice trembling violently as she stared at the green glass. "Tucker didn't do this. I've never seen that glass before. It wasn't here on Thursday, Brianne. I checked this closet when I put the fresh sheets out for you."
Brianne’s smile didn't vanish, but it softened into a look of heavy, patronizing pity—the exact expression Tucker had worn in the kitchen that morning. She reached out, her cool fingers wrapping around Felicity's wrist, her thumb gently pressing against the rapid, erratic jump of her pulse.
"Lissy... sweetie," Brianne said, her voice dropping into a low, confidential whisper that felt like a velvet trap.
"You did check the closet. I was standing right there with you, remember?
You moved that exact silver pouch to make room for the duvets.
You laughed about how Tucker always leaves his junk everywhere. "
Felicity stared at her. "I... I didn't laugh. I don't remember that."
"Of course you don't, honey," Brianne murmured, her blue eyes wide with a devastating, sympathetic clarity. "You were so tired on Friday night. Your brain is just exhausted from the stress of this big, quiet house. It’s exactly what the mind does when it’s under constant strain—it fills in the blanks with scary things. It’s just like that silly paperback you've been obsessing over. "
She squeezed Felicity’s wrist, a gesture that was entirely supportive from the outside.
"Come downstairs," Brianne whispered, her smile returning, bright and dependable. "I'm going to make us some chamomile tea, and we are going to look at the medication Tucker brought home. There's no shame in needing a little help to find the floor again, Lissy. We just want our old girl back."
She turned and walked out of the bedroom, her cashmere-clad ankles moving silently down the hallway, leaving Felicity standing alone in the doorway of the closet, staring at the empty space on the floor where the rusted screws had just been rewritten into her past.