A heavy, sinking feeling began to pool in his gut. «Dad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.»
The sound of his daughter’s voice from the hallway was a lifeline. «It’s nothing, Mia. I’m fine,» he lied, the words feeling clumsy and foreign in his mouth.
Ethan jammed the phone deep into his pocket, the corner of it digging into his thigh. «Just… a long day.» His fifteen-year-old daughter, a beautiful, haunting echo of Chloe at that age, sauntered into the kitchen, effortlessly gathering her long brown hair into a ponytail.
Her grace, the way she moved, it was a physical blow, a reminder of the woman he thought he knew. «Is Mom pulling another late one tonight?» Mia asked, her voice muffled as she peered into the refrigerator.
«Looks like it,» Ethan managed to reply, concentrating on keeping his own voice steady, even. «She’s swamped with that big annual report.» Work. The word was a shield, a convenient explanation for a growing absence he hadn’t allowed himself to question. Fourteen years. They had built a life over fourteen years, and in the space of thirty seconds, he felt like he was standing in the ruins of it, with no idea how it had fallen. The phone in his pocket felt radioactive.
He was fighting a primal urge to call Chloe, to scream into the phone, Who is he? What have you done?
«Dad, would it be okay if I went over to Ashley’s? She just got that new pro video editing suite, and we’re dying to try it out for our history project.»
Mia’s hopeful gaze cut through his dark spiral. He nodded, the motion disconnected from the frantic chaos in his head. Check her laptop. Go through her call history. Hire a private investigator. The thoughts were ugly, venomous. No, that was insane. He couldn’t become that person. «Just make sure you’re home by eight,» he added, the familiar parental instruction a flimsy piece of normalcy.
«Promise. Thanks, Dad!» A quick, light kiss on his cheek, a scent of teenaged shampoo, and she was gone, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence. He immediately pulled out the phone, his fingers flying across the search bar.
«Marcus Thorne» yielded a cascade of results. He refined it: «Marcus Thorne Chicago.» There, on the third page of results, a professional-looking website materialized.
Dr. Marcus A. Thorne, Licensed Psychotherapist & Family Counselor. Offering bespoke consultations for individuals and couples navigating relationship crises, personal growth, and trauma recovery. A wave of bile rose in Ethan’s throat. A therapist? Chloe was in therapy? The secrecy was a slap in the face. Why wouldn’t she tell him they were in trouble? And the cost… it was insane. The professional headshot on the site did little to reassure him. The man had distinguished graying temples and wore thin-rimmed glasses that were meant to convey intelligence, but the smile… the faint, knowing half-smile felt rehearsed, predatory. It was the smile of a man who knew people’s secrets. A memory surfaced, sharp and painful. A month ago, Chloe, her hands fidgeting with a napkin at the dinner table. «Ethan, I feel like we’re drifting apart. We don’t talk anymore.» He had waved it away with a sigh, muttering about a brutal quarter at work and the mortgage payment. He had dismissed her plea as background noise.
His phone buzzed violently on the countertop, and he jumped. A text from Chloe. This annual report is a monster. Going to be super late. Don’t wait up for dinner.
His thumbs moved with a will of their own, typing a test. Want me to pick you up? We could grab a bite at that place you like.
The three dots appeared and vanished. The reply was quick, decisive. No, don’t worry about it, honey. I’m stuck in a meeting, and then I have to swing by Sarah’s to pick up some files.
Ethan closed his eyes, the lie hanging in the air between them, transmitted across miles of fiber optic cable. Sarah was her department head. He could call Sarah’s husband, ask if the team was really working late. No. The thought made him feel sick. He would not become a spy in his own marriage. He opened his phone’s lock screen. A photo of Chloe, taken last summer at the lake, her head thrown back in laughter. Was that real? Or had the performance already begun?
The doorbell chimed, a sharp, intrusive sound. It was his mom, Helen, her arms laden with grocery bags, a cheerful whirlwind piercing his dark mood. «Ethan, honey, I got the transfer. Thank you so much,» she said, bustling past him into the kitchen. «I decided to bake pies. I know how much Chloe loves my apple pie.»
The casual, loving mention of his wife’s name was like a knife twisting in his gut. «Mom,» he started, his voice cracking slightly. «Have you… have you noticed anything different about Chloe lately?»
Helen stopped, mid-unpack, and turned to face him. Her gaze was sharp, missing nothing. «Different in what way, Ethan?»
«I don’t know,» he floundered, feeling foolish. «She just seems… distant. Working all the time. Spending more.»
«For God’s sake,» Helen said, her tone shifting from warm to stern. «The woman is a partner at her firm. She works hard. If she wants to buy herself a nice dress or go to a spa, she’s earned it. Or do you expect her to just be a wife and mother?» She paused, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. «Let me ask you something. When was the last time you took her on a proper date? A real evening out, just the two of you? When was the last time you two just sat on the couch and talked? Not about Mia’s grades or the leaking faucet, but about your hopes? Your fears?»
He stood there, mute, the indictment hanging in the air. She was right. He couldn’t remember.
His phone vibrated again, a notification banner sliding down from the top of the screen. A fraud alert from their credit card company. Your card ending in 4822 has exceeded its credit limit of $12,000. Chloe’s card. His blood ran cold. He mumbled an excuse and stepped into the hallway, opening the banking app with a sense of dread. There it was, in black and white. A history of charges that bore no resemblance to their life. Aria Boutique on Michigan Avenue: $4,300. The Elysian Spa & Wellness Center: $2,850. A restaurant called Le Ciel, a place they’d only been to once for a major anniversary: $1,260. All within the last thirty days.
He leaned against the cool plaster of the wall, his own finances flashing before his eyes. His savings account. The one he’d been diligently feeding for six months, dreaming of the day he could replace their aging SUV. He logged in. The balance, which should have been over six thousand dollars, was $124.36. A roaring filled his ears. He scrolled down, his finger shaking. Three weeks ago: a transfer to Chloe’s primary checking account. $6,420.