Marion hides behind the bedroom door
Alan's voice echoed from the hall, “Close the door, love. It’s time.”
I slipped into the bedroom, the thin curtain fluttering as I pulled it shut.
The hallway mirror caught the faint outline of my own silhouette, a ghost I couldn’t quite recognize.
Footsteps padded on the polished floor. Sergio Bennett’s shoes, polished leather, whispered against the wood.
He paused by the entryway, his grin tight, eyes flicking to the doorway I’d just barred.
“Nice place, Alan,” he said, his voice smooth, “very... polished.”
Alan turned, smiling, “Just got the extra polish for the promotion.” He gestured toward the dining room where plates gleamed.
Through the mirror I saw Sergio’s gaze linger on the closed door. A flicker of unease crossed his brow, then he forced a laugh.
“I’ll have a glass of your best,” he said, stepping further in, the scent of expensive cologne filling the air.
Alan’s façade held steady, his eyes never meeting mine, as if the room itself were a stage.
Behind the door, the thin curtain rustled again, and my breath caught at the sound of his stare reflected back at me.
Sergio’s question cuts through the dinner
We sat at the table, silverware clinking, the hum of polite conversation buzzing around us.
Alan poured wine, his hand steady, while I forced a smile, the wooden spoon still warm in my pocket.
Sergio leaned forward, his fork pausing mid‑air, eyes narrowing as if searching for something hidden.
“Marion,” he said, voice low enough to thread through the clatter, “I’ve heard you were a surgeon once.”
A cold shiver raced down my spine. I swallowed, feeling the room tilt ever so slightly.
Alan’s smile wavered for a heartbeat, then he replied, “She’s... retired now. No longer in practice.”
Sergio’s eyebrows rose, a thin line of skepticism etched across his face.
“Retired, yes, but where?” he asked, his tone soft but edged with curiosity.
My pulse hammered, the silence in the room thickening like fog.
He stared at me, his eyes suddenly wide, a flash of horror breaking across his features.
“Which hospital did you work at years ago?” he whispered, the question hanging, the room going dead quiet.
Marion’s Secret Slip
I watched Sergio’s fork hover over the roast, his eyes flicking toward the empty chair where I should have been.
My hand trembled under the tablecloth, the wooden spoon suddenly heavy.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, sliding the folded paper across the polished wood.
He glanced down, his brow furrowing as he read the cramped script.
“I was the surgeon who performed the experimental cardiac‑neuro graft in 2012. The board covered it up after the patient disappeared.”
My breath hitched; I could hear the click of his cufflink against his shirt.
“You—” he started, but his voice cracked, swallowed by the clatter of silverware.
I felt the weight of the past settle on my shoulders, the phantom smell of antiseptic mixing with the rosemary roast.
Inside, a storm of memories surged—scrubbing, the hum of monitors, the woman’s terrified eyes.
“Why tell me now?” I asked, a note of desperation hidden beneath the polite tone.
He stared at the paper, then at me, as if trying to decipher whether I was a victim or a conspirator.
“Because the truth won’t stay buried forever,” he replied, his voice low, eyes sharp.
My heart pounded, the rhythm matching the distant echo of a heart monitor I thought I’d left behind.
Sergio Confronts Alan
Alan stood by the hallway mirror, his reflection a mask of practiced composure.
