I had lived with this man for ten years.

I had shared a bed with him, had a child with him.

“He put those papers in Lily’s bed because he knew I would never look there,” I said, my voice shaking. “He knew I trusted him.”

“It was the perfect hiding place until your daughter started hearing him working on the frame at night,” Harris said.

I looked out the window at our house.

The yellow crime scene tape was fluttering in the wind.

“Is Eleanor going to be okay?” I asked.

“She’s in stable condition. The doctors are detoxing her from the medications your husband was giving her,” Harris said. “She’s already speaking more clearly. She asked for you, actually.”

Two days later, I visited Eleanor at the hospital.

Lily stayed with Sarah Miller.

The hospital room was bright and smelled of antiseptic.

Eleanor looked incredibly frail in the white bed, her gray hair brushed back.

Her eyes, however, were clear.

“Claire,” she whispered as I walked in.

I sat in the vinyl chair beside her bed and took her thin hand.