Confrontation in the Hospital
“Call your parents,” Chad said, his voice flat as the fluorescent lights hummed above us.
I clenched the bandages around my cheek, feeling the sting of fresh stitches and the weight of his indifference. “Why, Chad? Why did you leave the house burning?”
He glanced at the hallway clock, then at the empty stretch of floor where smoke had once curled.
“I have to leave.” The words came out like a command, not a plea.
“Leave? After I dragged you out, after you—” My throat rasped, the bandages catching on the words.
He stared past me, eyes fixed on his phone as it buzzed. “There’s a call I can’t miss.” He lifted his hand, a gesture that felt like a dismissal.
I felt the cold metal of the IV pole against my palm, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. “What call?” I pressed, the pain in my jaw a dull throb.
He didn’t answer, just turned his back and walked toward the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft sigh, sealing his departure.
At My Parents’ House
Chad handed the divorce papers across the worn kitchen table, his fingers barely brushing the paper’s edge.
My father opened the attic door, the hinges creaking as dust swirled around his flashlight beam.
“What’s this?” he muttered, pulling a battered cardboard box from the rafters.
Inside, a thin folder slipped out, its corners frayed. He lifted it, eyes widening as he saw a lease titled “Maya – 2B.”
“Insurance documents,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling, pulling out her phone.
She dialed the police, each keystroke echoing in the cramped hallway.
I stared at the lease, the name Maya flashing in my mind, the paper rustling under my fingertips.
“We need to see the whole thing,” my father said, flipping through the folder, the pages revealing a second apartment’s address and a policy number.
My mother’s eyes widened as the police sirens began to wail outside.
Just as the officer knocked, my phone lit up—an incoming call from an unknown number.
Police Officer Confronts the Lease
The officer spread the lease across the kitchen table, his eyes scanning the neat typed lines.
“It’s under the name Maya,” he said, tapping the header. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
I felt the bandages itch as I swallowed, the taste of antiseptic sharp on my tongue.
“Maya… No,” I whispered, “I’ve never heard of her.”
My father’s voice cut in, low and steady.
“Your husband’s been making trips to the town of Willow Creek these past weeks. Late at night. No one saw him leave.”
The officer frowned, his pen scratching the lease.
“And you didn’t tell us about these trips?” he asked, glancing at me.
I shook my head, the bandages crinkling.
“I thought they were work,” I muttered, “I didn’t think—”
He held up the document, the signature crisp.
“Maya Whitaker,” he read, “Tenant.”
My father’s jaw clenched.
“He rented a second place,” he said, “and paid the rent on time.”
My phone buzzed, a flashing number on the screen.
“Maya?” I read aloud, heart hammering.
Before I could answer, the officer reached for his radio.
“We need to see the lease and any correspondence,” he said, voice urgent.
I stared at the screen, the call already ringing, my fingers trembling.
Maya Arrives with a Photo
The front door swung open to a nervous woman in her thirties, clutching a trembling envelope.
“Are you… the one who…?” Maya stammered, eyes darting.
I nodded, the bandaged cheeks burning under the hallway light.
She slipped a glossy photo across the table.
The image showed Chad, arms around a small boy, both smiling in a park.
