I called her office, steady-voiced, reporting illness. Brought water, fever reducer, watched her grimace swallowing the pills. She sank back into heavy, rasping sleep. Sitting by the bed, seeing illness amplify her fragility, gym suspicions momentarily yielded to sharper concern. She seemed small, wounded. I smoothed her blanket, my mind churning, and left for work. Worried at lunch, I called home. Her voice remained scratchy, but claimed improvement, just bone-weary exhaustion.
The Doorbell
Friday afternoon, unease clung to me. I left work early. Emily alone all day worried me. Opening the door, stillness greeted me, only distant traffic humming. As I hung my coat, the doorbell pierced the quiet – sharp, intrusive. I expected a delivery person. Opening the door, an assault of cloying, aggressive cologne overwhelmed the entryway before its owner appeared. Ryan Carter stood there.
The Visitor
He wore a khaki safari jacket, open over a tight, dark V-neck tee outlining his chest, a thin silver chain glinting. He held an elaborate fruit basket tied with ribbon. His exaggerated musculature strained even through layers. His practiced, charismatic smile dazzled, teeth unnaturally white. "Hey! David? Emily's husband?" His voice boomed with forced familiarity, hand thrust out. "Ryan. Emily's trainer."
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