Clara’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sound that was half-sob, half-scream. The “clean and tidy” house she had admired moments ago now felt like a curated lie, a museum of a life that had ended the moment she stepped onto that plane four months ago.
She looked at the floor. The piles of discarded clothes—dark, tangled masses against the pristine white floor—looked like oil spills on snow.
“Julian?” she whispered, her voice cracking like thin glass.
Neither moved. The rhythmic rise and fall of their chests was the only sign of life, a cruel mockery of the domestic peace she had hoped to return to. She realized then that the shoes in the hallway weren’t a gift. They were a decoy, or perhaps a relic of a different life Julian was trying to simulate to keep the neighbors—or himself—from looking too closely at the truth.
