*Are you allowed to leave the house today, Clara?*

*Does he still make you weigh the flour to the exact gram?*

I had deleted those comments before Julian could see them.

Or at least, I thought I had.

“She’s just a reader,” I said.

“A regular commenter from the baking forum.”

“She is messaging you directly,” Julian said.

His face had gone very still.

“And she is doing it through an encrypted proxy.”

He stared at the screen.

His eyes moved back and forth.

He wasn’t speaking.

The kitchen clock ticked on the wall.

*Tick. Tick. Tick.*

“Julian?” I asked.

He didn’t look up.

“What does it say?”

I took a step toward him.

The smell of the minced garlic on the cutting board was sharp in the air.

“Get back,” he said.

His voice was not loud, but it had a hard edge.

I stopped.

I could see the light from the screen illuminating his chin.

“She says she knows me,” Julian whispered.

His brow furrowed.

He looked genuinely confused for a fraction of a second.

Then his expression cleared, replaced by a cold, blank mask.