“Now,” he said, his back to me. “We are going to go downstairs, and we are going to have dinner.”

He turned around, a strange, artificial smile on his face.

“Like a normal family,” he added.

I stood there, paralyzed, as he walked toward the door.

Just as he reached the handle, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and his smile instantly vanished.

He looked at me, then back at the phone, his face turning an ash-gray color as a text message flashed on the screen.

He didn’t look up from the screen.

His thumb hovered over the glass, trembling slightly before he shoved the phone deep into his trouser pocket.

“Who is that?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.

“Nobody,” he said, but his voice was too tight, too high.

He wiped his palms on his trousers, a small, nervous habit I had only seen him do before difficult surgeries.

“Nathan, tell me the truth,” I said, stepping closer to Eleanor’s bed.