My Mother Faked Her Death To Protect My Husband’s Mistress Chapter 02
The Chestnut Pastries
“Go pay the bill, Elliot,” Mom says from inside the private room. Her voice is soft, almost loving.
“Claire wants the chestnut pastries from that old bakery on the Southside. Pick some up for her on the way.”
I grip the metal clasp of my purse until it bites into my palm.
Ten minutes ago, I thought my mind was broken.
Now I know everyone around me is lying.
Elliot’s voice comes through the crack in the door.
“Mom, take Claire to the car first. It’s cold outside.”
That voice.
Patient. Gentle. Careful.
The same voice he uses when he tells me to take my pills. The same voice he uses when he holds me after nightmares about my dead mother.
I do not push the door open.
I do not make a sound.
I turn around and walk down the dim hallway, one step at a time.
Outside, the winter wind cuts across my face.
I get into a cab and give the driver my home address. Then I lean back against the seat and take out my phone.
My hands are shaking, but I still manage to open the cloud app linked to Elliot’s dashcam.
He was the one who connected it to my phone.
He said it would prove he had nothing to hide.
The video loads.
Half an hour ago, his car is parked in a gated estate on the west side of town.
Claire gets in first.
Then a middle-aged woman in sunglasses, a scarf, and a mask follows her into the car.
My mother.
Even alive, she has to dress like a criminal to stay hidden from me.
How touching.
My mother fakes her death to protect a mistress.
Elliot plays the perfect husband every night to keep the lie alive. I am the only one who believes the performance.
I am the grieving daughter who spends years crying over a woman who is not dead.
When I get home, I take off my coat and sit on the cold living room floor.
I do not turn on the lights.
I just sit there, staring at the door.
A long time later, the entry light clicks on.
The keypad lock beeps.
Elliot is home.
He steps inside with the cold still clinging to his coat. In one hand, he carries a neat paper box tied with ribbon.
The second he sees me on the floor, his face changes.
He does not even take off his shoes.
He strides over and pulls me up.
“June, the floor is freezing. Why aren’t you wearing slippers?”
His voice is full of worry. It almost sounds real.
I let him pull me to my feet.
My eyes move to the box in his other hand.
Chestnut pastries.
From that old bakery on the Southside.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
Elliot sets the box on the coffee table without missing a beat. Then he reaches out and smooths my hair like I am something fragile.
“I met a client,” he says. “I happened to pass the Southside on my way back. I remembered you used to like that bakery, so I bought some.”
He looks so sincere.
Even his lies come out clean.
I look at him.
“The office is north of town. What client makes you go all the way to the Southside?”
His hand pauses.
Something flickers in his eyes.
It is gone almost before I can catch it.
“A supplier from out of town,” he says. “He’s staying at a hotel there.”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the sofa.
“Don’t overthink it, okay?”
His voice softens.
“You haven’t been sleeping well. The doctor said you need to keep your emotions stable.”
There it is.
My illness.
The thing he always uses to make me doubt myself.
I stare at the pastry box.
“Open it,” I say. “Let me try one.”
Elliot lets out a quiet breath, like he has been forgiven.
He unties the ribbon and opens the box. Then he picks up a pastry and brings it to my mouth.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Open up.”
I do not move.
I just look at him.
“Elliot,” I say, my voice is very soft. “Did you forget I’m allergic to chestnuts?”
The room goes still.
His hand freezes in the air.
For the first time tonight, panic breaks through his perfect face.
“I’m sorry, June.”
He pulls the pastry back fast and throws it into the trash.
“I’ve been too busy lately. I got confused.”
Confused.
Of course he did.
Because I am not the one who likes chestnut pastries.
Claire is.
This box is not a gift for me.
It is a prop he brings home after dropping her off.
I look at him and try to smile.
Nothing comes.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Then I turn and walk toward the bedroom.
Elliot catches my wrist from behind.
“June,” he says, and now there is a thread of exhaustion in his voice. “I really am just tired.”
His grip tightens.
“Can you stop looking at me like that?”
I stop walking.
I do not turn around.
“Then what kind of look am I supposed to give you?”