The morning light carved shadows across Daniel's face, turning his stubbled jaw into a landscape of valleys and ridges. Mara held her breath and clicked the shutter.
Perfect.
She'd been photographing him for three months now—sleeping, reading, washing dishes—building a collection of moments when he looked most like himself. When the careful mask he wore for patients slipped away, revealing something raw underneath. Something that made her chest tighten with possession.
The camera clicked again. Daniel's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His breathing stayed deep and even, one arm flung across the pillow where she'd been lying twenty minutes ago.
She crept closer, adjusting her macro lens. The scar above his left eyebrow caught the light—a thin white line he'd never explained. She'd ask about it again later. He'd deflect again. They'd both pretend it didn't matter.
Her finger found the shutter release. The camera clicked—
And her lens cap tumbled from her lap, hitting the hardwood with a sharp crack.
Daniel stirred. Mara froze, camera suspended mid-frame, watching his face for signs of consciousness. After ten seconds, his breathing resumed its steady rhythm.
The lens cap had rolled under his desk, disappearing into the shadow beneath the vintage oak piece they'd bought at an estate sale last month. She'd have to retrieve it before he woke up and found her crouched on the floor with her camera like some obsessive—
She crawled forward, fingers sweeping the dusty floorboards. Nothing. The cap must have rolled farther back.
Mara flattened herself against the floor, peering into the darkness under the desk. Her hand found the lens cap wedged against something solid—a piece of wood that shouldn't be there. She traced its edges with her fingertips.
A drawer. Hidden beneath the desk's main structure, built into the shadow where no one would think to look.
She pulled at it. Locked.
Daniel's breathing changed behind her—shorter, more irregular. She glanced over her shoulder. Still asleep, but his face had tightened, forehead creasing like he was solving a problem in his dreams.
The drawer had no visible keyhole. Just a smooth wooden face with a small depression where a handle should be. She pressed her thumb into it and twisted.
The drawer slid open with a whisper.
Inside: a leather journal, its cover stained dark brown in patterns that looked deliberate. Artistic. The pages fell open to an entry dated three days ago—October 15th, 2:47 AM.
Her chest went cold.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢.
𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥.
The handwriting was Daniel's—she'd seen it on grocery lists, appointment reminders, the inscription in the photo album he'd given her for their anniversary. But these words, this voice—
"Mara?"
She slammed the journal shut and shoved it back into the drawer, her heart hammering against her ribs. The drawer slid closed with barely a sound.
"Just looking for my lens cap," she called, crawling backward from under the desk, camera clutched against her chest.
Daniel sat up in bed, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep. "Find it?"
She held up the lens cap, forcing a smile. "Got it."
But as she attached it to her camera with trembling fingers, one thought carved itself into her mind with surgical precision:
Clara Nguyen had been found dead on October 15th at 3:15 AM. The news had reported her body discovered on the rocks below Dogleg Curve, her blood washed away by the rain.
The journal entry was timestamped twenty-eight minutes before her death.
And Daniel had been in bed beside her all night. Hadn't he?
"Come back to bed," he murmured, patting the space beside him. "It's Saturday."
Mara looked at his hand—clean, gentle, the same hand that had traced her spine in the dark, that had held her face when she cried about her nightmares. The same hand that had written those words in bleeding ink.
"In a minute," she whispered, and watched his eyes drift closed again.
But she didn't move toward the bed. She stayed frozen in place, camera hanging from her neck like a weight, staring at the man she'd married and wondering if she'd ever really known him at all.
Because if Daniel had written that journal entry, then he was either a murderer—
Or he was losing his mind.
And she wasn't sure which possibility terrified her more.