“Arthur.”
He looked at me.
“When did you learn Chloe died?”
His eyes filled with something I finally recognized.
Not grief.
Shame.
“Claire…”
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
My daughter died Thursday night.
Her funeral was Monday.
Arthur returned Tuesday evening.
For several seconds, I genuinely could not understand the dates.
“You knew before you came home?”
He nodded.
My stomach turned.
“You walked through our front door and asked where she was.”
“I panicked.”
“You pretended you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You brought Beatrice into our house.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“You laughed.”
“I was terrified.”
“You said it was just a business trip.”
“I didn’t know what else to say.”
I stared at the man I had slept beside for seven years.
Then the final piece clicked into place.
Project Sparrow.
My grief.
The incapacity clause.
The emotional triggers.
“You wanted me to react.”
