My Mother Faked Her Death To Protect My Husband’s Mistress Chapter 07
The Locked Box
On the day I leave the hospital, Elliot insists on taking me home.
He calls the house “our home.”
To me, it looks like a cold showroom.
Everything is black, white, and gray, all sharp lines and empty walls. It feels designed, not lived in.
I stand in the middle of the living room and look around in confusion.
Elliot carries my bag into the bedroom.
When he comes back out, he is holding a glass of warm milk.
“June,” he says gently, “drink this and get some sleep.”
His voice is gentle in a way that feels practiced.
Like he is trying to create the illusion that nothing has ever been broken between us.
I do not take the milk.
“I want to look for my old things,” I say.
His hand stiffens.
“Those aren’t important anymore.”
He forces the glass into my hand.
“The doctor said you need rest. Don’t think about the past.”
He is afraid.
Afraid I will remember something.
Afraid I will find something.
I look at him coldly, then turn and walk into the study.
I lock the door behind me.
Elliot knocks outside at once.
“June, open the door.”
I ignore him.
Something tells me this house is hiding secrets that belong to me.
I search through drawers, cabinets, shelves, and boxes.
At the very back of the lowest drawer in the desk, I find a locked metal box.
Beside it is a small key.
I unlock the box.
On top is a thick stack of medical reports.
Severe depression with severe visual hallucinations.
The dates start six months ago.
Every follow-up record says the same thing.
Condition worsening.
I keep digging.
Under the reports, there is a black notebook.
I open to the first page.
The handwriting is mine.
The words are pressed so hard into the paper that they almost tear through it.
Today, I saw him bring home chestnut pastries from the old bakery on the Southside. He said they were for me, but I know better. Claire is the one who likes chestnuts. I am allergic to them.
I turn the page.
Mom went to see Claire. Claire was wearing the coat I bought for her. So Mom isn’t dead. The thing that died was the last bit of hope I had left in this world.
My fingers start shaking.
I turn another page.
He said he would take me to my follow-up tomorrow, but I heard him comforting Claire in the stairwell.
Another page.
If I never expose him, will he keep acting like a good husband for the rest of his life?
Every line hurts in a place I cannot remember.
I do not remember any of it.
Not the pastries.
Not the apartment.
Not Claire.
Not the mother who is supposed to be dead but isn’t.
But as I read my own words, tears fall without warning.
My chest hurts.
Not like sadness.
Like my body remembers what my mind has erased.
Like the pain is stored somewhere deeper than memory.
Bang!
The study door flies open.
Elliot has found a spare key.
He rushes in.
The moment he sees the notebook in my hands, his face goes pale.
“June, don’t read that.”
He lunges toward me like a madman and snatches the notebook away.
Several photos slip out from between the pages and scatter across the floor.
I lower my eyes.
In the photos, Elliot is at a villa on the west side.
Claire is sitting in front of a birthday cake.
My mother is there too. Alive. Smiling.
Elliot stands beside them in a light gray sweater.
They look as if they belong together.
The photos were taken from outside the window.
By a private investigator.
Elliot stares at the pictures on the floor.
His whole body freezes.
He thought his lie was perfect.
He thought he had hidden everything.
But the old me had already seen through him.
I sit on the floor and look up at him.
Even without my memories, I understand enough.
“You thought I was crazy,” I say. “But I was only acting along with you.”
I state it like a fact.
Elliot’s knees give out.
He drops hard into the mess on the floor.
With trembling hands, he starts picking up the photos.
Tears fall from his eyes and land on the glossy paper.
“You knew,” he says.
His voice is hoarse, like it has been scraped raw.
“You knew everything.”
He looks up at me, eyes full of despair.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why did you keep watching me lie to you every day?”
His hands shake around the photos.
“June, were you punishing me this way?”
I look at him as he breaks down in front of me.
Inside, I feel nothing.
Not satisfaction.
Not pity.
Not pain.
Only a quiet, empty distance.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Then I look at the photos in his hands.
“But now I know why I would rather go crazy than remember you.”