Daniel looked at the phone.

Then he looked at Nora.

Her eyes were fixed on the screen with an expression he had never seen on her face before.

Not fear exactly.

Something closer to calculation — the look of someone running numbers in their head and not liking the total.

He picked up the phone.

"Dr.

Harmon," he said aloud, reading the name.

Nora's jaw tightened.

"Who is Dr.

Harmon, Nora?"

"Nobody." She said it too fast.

"A colleague.

It's nothing."

Daniel accepted the call and put it on speaker.

"Daniel." The voice was a man's — careful, measured, the kind of voice that delivered bad news for a living.

"I've been trying to reach you since yesterday.

I need you to come in.

The results from your bloodwork last month — there are some anomalies I can't explain."

The kitchen was absolutely silent.

"What kind of anomalies?" Daniel said.

"Elevated liver enzymes.

Trace compounds we're still trying to identify.

Daniel, have you been feeling fatigued?

Nauseous in the mornings?"

Daniel's eyes moved to Nora.

She had stopped breathing.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"For about three months."

A pause on the line.

"Three months." Dr.

Harmon's voice dropped half a register.

"I'd like you to come in today if possible.

And Daniel — don't eat or drink anything until you do."

The call ended.

Lily was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still clutching the torn hem of her dress.

She was watching her father with the focused, serious expression of a child who understood more than anyone had given her credit for.

Daniel set the phone on the counter.

"Three months," he said again, quietly.

Not to Nora.

Not to Lily.

To himself.

Three months ago was when Nora had started making his tea every morning.

She had framed it as a gesture — you work so hard, let me do something small for you.

He had thought it was kindness.

"Daniel—" Nora started.

"Don't." His voice was flat.

"Don't say anything right now."

"You don't understand what was happening.

You were pulling away from me.

You were distant for months before that, you were already—"

"I said don't."

He picked up the dark bottle from the counter where he had set it.

He turned it over in his hands.

No label.

No markings.

A small amount of liquid still moved inside when he tilted it.

"Where did you get this?"

Nora pressed her lips together.

"Where did you get it, Nora?"

"I didn't want to hurt you." Her voice cracked on the last word, but her eyes stayed dry.

"I just wanted you to stay.

I wanted you to need me.

If you were a little sick, just enough — you wouldn't leave.

You'd need someone to take care of you."

Daniel stared at her for a long moment.

"You've been making me sick," he said.

"For three months.

While Lily was in this house.

While I was shaking her hand at breakfast and telling her I was fine."

Lily made a small sound from the doorway.

Daniel turned and crossed to her in three steps.

He knelt and pulled her against his chest, and she buried her face in his shoulder and held on.

Over her head, he looked at Nora.

"Get out of my house," he said.

"Right now.

Take nothing that isn't yours."

"Daniel, please—"

"I'm calling the police in ten minutes.

If you're still here, I won't stop them."

Nora looked at him.

Then at Lily.

Then at the bottle still in his hand.

She picked up her bag from the hook by the door.

She left without another word.

The front door clicked shut.

Lily tightened her arms around Daniel's neck.

"Is she coming back?" she whispered.

Daniel held his daughter and looked at the foaming tea still spread across the marble floor.

"No," he said.

"She's not."

But when he reached for his phone to call the police, he found a text already waiting — sent from Nora's number thirty seconds ago, while she was still walking down the front path.

*You'll regret this.

I know things about you that you've forgotten.

Don't make me use them.*