I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

There must be some mistake, Dr.

Patterson said, but his voice had lost its authority. He was looking at Robert now. Confusion—and the first hint of concern—crossing his features.

“Yes,” I agreed. “There has been a mistake. A deliberate one.” I opened the folder, pulled out the assessment forms.

“These aren’t even your forms, Doctor. The letterhead is slightly wrong. The address says Suite 240, but your practice is in Suite 204.

I know because I’ve been there a dozen times over the years. Someone created these documents, but they weren’t careful enough.”

Robert stood abruptly. “Stella, I think you need to rest.

You’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I said. “I’m clear-headed. Possibly for the first time in years.” I turned back to Dr.

Patterson. “Did my husband ask you to create false medical records, or did he create them himself and plan to have you validate them?”

Dr. Patterson stammered, gathering his papers with shaking hands.

“I think there’s been a serious misunderstanding, Robert. Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Robert said smoothly, moving toward the door. “Stella, why don’t you rest upstairs while Dr.

Patterson and I sort this out?”

“No.” The word came out harder than I’d intended. “I’m not going anywhere. In fact, Doctor, I think you should leave now, and I think you should consider very carefully what you say about this visit.”

Dr.

Patterson practically fled. I heard his Mercedes start. The spray of gravel as he reversed too quickly out of our driveway.

Robert and I stood in the living room, facing each other across 41 years of marriage. “Stella,” he said finally, his voice taking on a reasonable, measured tone, “I know how this looks, but you have to understand. I’m worried about you.

I’ve been worried for months. Your memory, your confusion—”

“Stop.” I held up one hand. “We both know I’m not confused.

We both know exactly what’s happening here.”

Something changed in his face. The mask of concern slipped just for a moment. And I saw beneath it.

Cold calculation. Irritation at a plan gone wrong. “What exactly do you think is happening?” he asked quietly.

“I think you’re trying to make me look incompetent so you can control our assets. I think you’re involved with someone named Laura Hardy.”

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt.

Hard enough to shock. In 41 years, Robert had never grabbed me. “You’ve been going through my things,” he said.

And his voice was different now. Colder. “My emails, my files—”

“Your unlocked accounts,” I corrected, pulling my wrist free.

“You never bothered to hide anything because you never thought I’d look. You underestimated me.”

He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair. When he looked at me again, the mask was back in place.

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