Chapter 2 - The Mask of Mourning
Garrett fell to his knees on the cold, sterile linoleum of the pediatric ICU. The sound that came out of him was a ragged, choked gasp—a theatrical display of grief that might have fooled anyone else. But as I stood over him, my hands cold and empty, I saw the minute adjustments in his posture. I saw the way his eyes darted to the nurse’s station, checking to see who was watching his grand performance of a devastated father.
"No," he whimpered, pressing his forehead against my knees. "No, Clara, tell me it’s not true. Not Ethan. Not my boy."
I didn’t pull away, nor did I comfort him. My body felt like a hollow shell carved out of ice. "He asked for you, Garrett. His last words were your name."
"My phone," he stammered, pulling the sleek device from his pocket. It was on now, the screen glowing brightly. "The battery... the charger in my car was broken. I was with the Henderson Group. We were celebrating the merger. It was loud, Clara. I didn’t know."
Liar.
Even now, with our son’s body still warm in the room behind us, the lies tasted sweet on his tongue. I looked down at his collar. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of beige foundation near his clavicle. Not my shade. And the scent clinging to him wasn't the smoky aroma of a steakhouse or the stale smell of a corporate boardroom. It was jasmine and expensive French vanilla. The signature scent of Cynthia Vance, his firm’s newly appointed junior partner.
"I need to see him," Garrett sobbed, pushing himself up. "I need to tell him..."
"He can't hear you anymore," I said, my voice shockingly flat. It lacked the jagged edge of hysteria, which seemed to terrify him more than if I had started screaming. "You're too late."
He pushed past me anyway, stumbling into the room. I didn't follow. Instead, I quietly picked up his coat, which he had discarded on a waiting room chair. I reached into the deep inner pocket. My fingers brushed against a stiff piece of paper. I pulled it out.
It was a receipt from The Luminary, a five-star boutique hotel downtown. Check-in: 7:00 PM. Room 412. The timestamp on the room service order for champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries was 9:30 PM.
Right when Ethan’s fever had spiked to 105∘F. Right when I was begging the triage nurse to find a doctor.
I folded the receipt carefully and slipped it into my own pocket. A strange, metallic taste filled my mouth. It wasn't grief. The grief was a heavy, suffocating anchor in my chest, but surrounding it was something new, sharp, and electric.
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Garrett thought he was a master manipulator. He had spent his career as a high-profile defense attorney, spinning narratives to save monsters from the consequences of their actions. He thought he could spin this. He thought a few weeks of crying, some flowers, and a solemn vow to be a better husband would patch the crack in our foundation.
He had no idea that the foundation was already gone. There was only a void now, and I was going to fill it with his ruin.
