The Closet Door Was Breathing

Damon grabbed my wrist.

Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but hard enough to make his intentions unmistakable.

“Give me the page, Emily.””

I looked down at his fingers wrapped around my skin.

“Let go.””

“Just give it to me.””

“Why?””

“Because you don't understand what you're looking at.””

His voice had changed. The gentle husband who'd kissed my forehead minutes earlier had vanished, replaced by a man who knew something terrible was about to be exposed.

I pulled my wrist free.

The torn page was hidden beneath my pajama sleeve. I'd ripped it out when I saw the words If she knows, move the date. I didn't know what the date meant, but I'd learned enough about Damon that night to understand one thing.

If he wanted it back, I needed to keep it.

“It's a notebook,” I said.

“You told me it was for work.””

“It is.””

“Then why does it have my name in it?””

“Emily, you're tired. You're pregnant. You're reading things without context and making them into something they aren't.””

I almost laughed.

“You're the one who told me to stop worrying about everything. You said my instincts were unreliable because of the hormones.””

“I never said that.””

“You said I imagined things.””

“Because you do sometimes.””

The words landed between us.

He seemed to realize what he'd said, but instead of apologizing, he held out his hand again.

“Please. Give it back.””

I studied his face.

For five years, I'd thought I knew every version of Damon. The charming man who brought coffee to my office. The husband who cried when we saw our baby's heartbeat for the first time. The man who'd promised me that even if the world turned against us, he'd always be on my side.

I wondered how many of those moments had been real.

“Fine,” I said.

I handed him the notebook.

He snatched it so quickly that the cover bent beneath his fingers.

Then he opened it.

His eyes moved across the pages.

One.

Two.

Three.

He reached the torn section.

“Where is it?””

“Where is what?””

“The page.””

“I don't know.””

He stared at me.

I stared back.

For a moment, I thought he might shout. Instead, he closed the notebook and forced a smile onto his face.

“You shouldn't be going through my things.””

“Then you shouldn't leave them lying around.””

He flinched.

It was small, but I saw it.

I lay down and turned toward the wall.

“I'm tired, Damon.””

He remained standing beside the bed.

After a long silence, he said, “We'll talk in the morning.””

I closed my eyes.

“Sure.””

I heard him walk into the bathroom. The faucet turned on. A drawer opened and shut.

Then I heard the unmistakable click of the office safe downstairs.

He'd moved the notebook.

Good.

That meant the missing page mattered more than the notebook itself.

I waited until the bathroom light went out before pulling my phone from beneath the pillow.

My fingers shook as I photographed the torn page I'd hidden in my sleeve.

The words were clear.

If she knows, move the date.

Below them, a handwritten notation had been partially cut off by the tear.

*9:30 A.M. — Dr. H.*

I searched my messages for the name of my obstetrician.

Dr. Hannah Miller.

My appointment with her was scheduled for the following morning at 9:30.

I sat up so quickly that my daughter kicked beneath my ribs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, pressing a hand against my belly.

“What are they doing?””

Damon shifted in his sleep.

I turned off my screen.

I didn't sleep again.

At six in the morning, I slipped out of bed and went downstairs. The kitchen was cold, and rain tapped against the windows. I made tea I couldn't drink and sat at the table with the ultrasound envelope in front of me.

I wanted to call Claire.

I wanted to hear her voice and ask how she could do this to me.

But I knew what would happen.

She'd cry. She'd apologize. She'd tell me it was a mistake.

And if I believed her, I'd be giving her another chance to hide whatever was written in that notebook.

My phone rang at 6:42.

Claire's name appeared on the screen.

I let it ring twice before answering.

“Hey,” I said.

“Emily!”” Her voice was bright, almost painfully normal.

“How are you feeling?””

I looked at the rain crawling down the glass.

“Fine.””

“Did the appointment go well yesterday?””

There it was.

Not How's the baby?

Not Can I see the ultrasound?

She wanted to know what had happened at the appointment.

“Yes,” I said.

“Everything was fine.””

“Oh, thank God.”” She exhaled.

“I was worried about you.””

“Why?””

A pause.

“Because you're getting close to your third trimester. You know how I worry.””

I watched a drop of water slide down the window.

“Claire, do you remember that champagne camisole you showed me after your engagement dinner?””

Silence.

Then a tiny, nervous laugh.

“What a random question.””

“Do you remember it?””

“Of course. Why?””

“I was thinking about how pretty the little sapphire charm was.””

“Oh.”” Her voice became softer.

“I still have it somewhere.””

“Do you?””

“Emily, what's going on?””

I almost told her.

I almost said I'd seen her ring inside my closet. That her perfume was still on my pillow. That I had photographs of the clothes she'd left behind.

Instead, I said, “Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.””

“Oh, honey.””

Her relief was immediate.

“I'm glad you called. I've been meaning to stop by. Maybe we can have lunch today?””

“Maybe.””

“I could bring those lemon cookies you love.””

“You know what, Claire?””

“Yeah?””

“I don't think I want lemon cookies anymore.””

Another pause.

“Okay,” she said slowly.

“Whatever you want.””

We hung up.

I set the phone on the table and stared at it.

The woman who'd once driven through a snowstorm to sit with me after my mother's surgery had just lied to me without a single hesitation.

At eight, Damon appeared in the kitchen wearing a navy suit.

He poured coffee and checked his watch.

“You're up early.””

“Couldn't sleep.””

He glanced at the ultrasound envelope.

“You should try to rest before your appointment.””

“I thought you had a client emergency this morning.””

His hand tightened around the coffee mug.

“I moved the meeting.””

“How considerate.””

“Emily, please.”” He set the mug down.

“Can we not do this today?””

“Do what?””

“Whatever this is.””

I looked at him.

“You mean ask questions?””

He dragged a hand over his face.

“I know yesterday was upsetting.””

“Was it?””

“Yes. I know you saw something that looked bad.””

“Looked bad?””

“Claire came over to drop something off. We had a misunderstanding. It wasn't what you think.””

I held his gaze.

“Then what was she doing in our closet?””

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

For one beautiful second, the truth stood between us, stripped of every excuse.

Then Damon recovered.

“Claire wasn't in the closet.””

I felt something inside me go cold.

“You're right,” I said.

“I must have imagined the ring.””

He stepped toward me.

“Emily—”

“I'm going to my appointment.””

“I'll drive you.””

“No.””

“You shouldn't drive when you're upset.””

“I'm pregnant, Damon. Not helpless.””

His jaw tightened.

“Fine. But call me when you're finished.””

I picked up my purse and the ultrasound envelope.

At the door, I turned back.

“One more thing.””

He looked up.

“Did Dr. Miller call you yesterday?””

His expression changed.

Only for a fraction of a second.

But it was enough.

“No,” he said.

“Why would she?””

I smiled without meaning it.

“Just curious.””

Then I left.

At the clinic, the receptionist greeted me with her usual smile. I signed in, sat beneath a poster of a smiling baby, and tried to breathe normally.

When the nurse called my name, I followed her into an examination room.

Dr. Miller entered five minutes later, carrying my chart.

“Emily, good morning. How are you feeling?””

“Physically? Fine.””

She smiled.

“And emotionally?””

I hesitated.

“I have a question about yesterday's appointment.””

She flipped through the chart.

“Yesterday?””

“The ultrasound. The results. There was something I wanted to ask.””

Her smile faded.

“Emily, your ultrasound was yesterday?””

“Yes.””

She looked down at the paperwork, then back at me.

“That's strange.””

My fingers tightened around my purse.

“What is?””

She turned the monitor toward herself and clicked through several screens.

“According to our system, your appointment was rescheduled three days ago.””

“Rescheduled by whom?””

Dr. Miller studied the screen.

“Your husband called our office.””

The room seemed to tilt.

“No,” I whispered.

“He didn't.””

She looked uncomfortable.

“He said you were having difficulty managing your anxiety and wanted to postpone the detailed scan until next week.””

I stared at her.

“I never said that.””

“I understand.””

“No, you don't.”” My voice cracked.

“I was there yesterday. Someone did an ultrasound. I have the pictures.””

I pulled the envelope from my purse.

Dr. Miller examined the image, then looked at the patient label.

Her face changed.

“Emily, this isn't from our clinic.””

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“What?””

She turned the picture over.

The name printed on the back was mine.

But the clinic code wasn't.

Dr. Miller picked up the phone and asked her assistant to retrieve the original records from my previous appointment.

Then she turned back to me.

“Emily, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly.””

I nodded.

“Has anyone asked you to take medication you weren't prescribed? Or told you that your pregnancy was at risk when your doctor hadn't said so?””

My mouth went dry.

Damon had been insisting for weeks that I was too anxious. He'd started bringing me vitamins he said Dr. Miller recommended. He'd even suggested I take a mild sedative when I couldn't sleep.

I'd refused.

Now I remembered the tiny white bottle he'd left beside my water glass last Sunday.

I had assumed it was a supplement.

“I don't know,” I whispered.

Dr. Miller reached across the desk and squeezed my hand.

“I'm going to review everything. But until I do, don't take anything that hasn't come directly from our office.””

I nodded, barely able to hear her.

Then she added, “And Emily? Whatever is happening at home, I want you to know that your medical information should never have been changed without your consent.””

She turned back to the computer.

A moment later, she stopped scrolling.

“That's impossible.””

“What?””

She opened another record.

A consent form appeared on the screen.

My name was printed at the bottom.

My signature was beneath it.

Except I had never signed it.

Dr. Miller enlarged the document.

The form authorized someone else to receive my prenatal records and make certain scheduling decisions on my behalf.

The signature looked almost exactly like mine.