Chapter 2
The sun dipped lower behind the manicured lawns of the upscale neighborhood, casting long, bruised shadows across the hardwood floors of the living room. David paced the length of the Persian rug, the brass candlestick resting on the coffee table like an unexploded ordnance. He had not touched his dinner, nor had he offered a word of comfort to Clara, who sat rigidly on the edge of the velvet sofa, her green satin blouse now feeling like a straitjacket.
“How long, Clara?” David stopped pacing, turning to face her with eyes that demanded absolute truth. “How long has this house been a nightmare behind my back?”
Clara kept her chin up, adopting an air of defensive martyrdom that had served her well in social circles. “You work sixty hours a week, David. You fly to Chicago, to New York, to London. You have no idea what it takes to manage this household, let alone care for a woman whose mind is slipping away piece by piece. She accuses me of poisoning her food. She hides my jewelry and claims the ghosts took it. Today she threw my grandmother’s wedding ring down the garbage disposal. I snapped. Who wouldn’t snap?”
Her words were calculated, hitting the exact notes of caregiver burnout that psychiatrists often warned about. For a fleeting second, David’s shoulders slumped. The anger in his posture seemed to recede, replaced by the crushing guilt of a man who felt he had failed to protect his family. He walked over to the coffee table and picked up the heavy brass piece, running his thumb over the intricate engravings along its base.
“Maya doesn’t say you’re a victim, Clara,” David said softly, his voice cutting through the manufactured sympathy in the room. “Maya told me yesterday that she found bruising on Mother’s wrists. She thought about calling adult protective services.”
Clara’s heart skipped a beat, but her face remained a masterclass in controlled disbelief. “Maya is twenty-four years old and looking for a reason to sue us or justify her inflated hourly rate. You’re going to trust a seasonal caregiver over your own wife?”
“Maya has worked in geriatric care for seven years,” David replied, his gaze sharpening again. “She keeps a detailed log. Every medication dosage, every behavioral outburst, and every unexplained injury. She showed me the logbook in her bag before I walked into the kitchen today.”
The revelation struck Clara like a physical blow. The logbook. She had searched Maya’s canvas tote twice last week while the girl was downstairs doing laundry, but she must have missed a hidden pocket, or perhaps Maya had started keeping a digital copy in the cloud. Either way, the perimeter of Clara’s control was shrinking rapidly.
May you like
“Bring the logbook down,” Clara said coldly, standing up to face her husband head-on. “Let’s read it together. Let’s see what else your precious employee has fabricated to make herself feel like a savior.”
David stared at her, the distance between them feeling vast and impassable. “Maya isn’t here, Clara. She took Mother and left ten minutes ago.”
