Chapter 6 - The Husband's Secret
The house was a tomb of silence, save for the rhythmic, mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Camille sat at the kitchen island, staring at the untouched mug of herbal tea Ethan had placed before her an hour ago. The steam had long since vanished, leaving the liquid a murky, stagnant brown.
Ethan was in the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his back to her. He was holding a magazine, but his eyes were fixed on the dark window, watching the rain lash against the glass. He had been like this for days—rigid, silent, a pillar of stoic support that felt increasingly brittle.
"Harper's condition hasn't changed," Ethan said suddenly, his voice raspy. "The doctors are optimistic about the swelling."
Camille nodded, wrapping her cold hands around her mug. "I know. They said she's stable."
"She needs us to be strong," he said, turning his head slightly. His expression was a mask of concern, but his eyes darted away too quickly. "I'm going to go check on the caterers. Make sure they've cleared everything out."
Before Camille could respond, he was up and moving toward the back door, his movements jerky and hurried. The front door clicked shut, and the lock engaged with a sharp thunk that echoed in the hollow room.
Camille stood alone. The silence pressed against her eardrums. She looked around the kitchen, at the remnants of the disaster—crumbs of cake, a deflated balloon, the overturned chair. It felt like a crime scene, not a home.
Her gaze fell on the recycling bin. The plastic bag was torn open. Amidst the crushed beer cans and empty wine bottles, something caught the light—a small, rectangular shard of plastic. She walked over, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It was a piece of a cheap, translucent phone case.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Detective Miller.
*“Mrs. Vance. I’m outside. I have some updates on the phone records.”*
Camille’s breath hitched. She answered on the first ring. "Detective."
"Did Ethan leave?" Miller’s voice was gravelly, tired.
"Yes."
"Good. I need to show you something." Miller paused. "I ran the number on the burner phone we found in the bushes. It was registered to a prepaid account. But the IP address used to set it up... it pinged to a location near Ethan’s office last week."
Camille gripped the counter, her knuckles turning white. "He used his work computer?"
"He did. The call logs show a string of calls to Vanessa’s cell phone on the night of the party, starting at 11:30 PM. Right before the ambulance arrived." Miller’s voice dropped lower. "Camille, Ethan was communicating with her. He wasn't just a victim in this. He was a participant."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Camille felt the blood drain from her face. She looked out the window. Ethan was nowhere to be seen. He had been gone for twenty minutes.
She ran to the garage, bursting through the heavy door. The space was dimly lit by the overhead fluorescent light. Ethan’s black SUV was parked there, the engine cold. She approached it, her hands trembling as she reached for the driver's side door.
It was unlocked.
She slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against her thighs. Her eyes scanned the dashboard. Nothing. Then, her hand brushed against the glove compartment. It was slightly ajar. She pulled it open.
A slim, black object sat inside—a burner phone, the kind used by drug dealers or spies in movies. It was turned off, but she could see the screen was cracked.
She pulled it out, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She pressed the power button.
*No signal.*
She heard the front door open downstairs. Ethan was back.
Camille scrambled to turn the car off, shoving the burner phone into her pocket just as Ethan’s boots thudded on the concrete floor of the garage.
"Camille?" His voice was tight, strained. "I thought I heard the garage door."
She didn't turn around. "I... I came to get the charger for my phone."
Ethan walked around the hood of the car, his eyes narrowing as they landed on her hand, which was still buried deep in her pocket. He moved faster than she expected, reaching for her wrist.
"Show me," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
"It's nothing," she stammered, trying to pull away, but his grip was iron.
He ripped the phone from her hand. He stared at it for a long, terrifying second, then looked at her. The facade of the grieving husband cracked. The panic in his eyes was absolute.
"Don't," he whispered.
"Why?" Camille screamed, the sound tearing from her throat. "Why does Vanessa have a phone in your car, Ethan? Detective Miller said you were calling her!"
Ethan slumped against the passenger door, the phone slipping from his fingers to the floor. He covered his face with his hands. "She had leverage, Camille. She had photos."
"Photos of what?" Camille stepped closer, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. "What did she have?"
He lowered his hands, but his eyes were wet, shimmering with a desperate, pleading sincerity. "She threatened to expose me. To the firm. To everyone. She said she would tell the world I was... I was unfaithful."
Camille froze. The air left the room. "You cheated on me?"
"With Vanessa," he said quickly. "It was a mistake. A one-time thing, years ago. I thought it was over. But she came back. She threatened to ruin my career, to take Harper away from me."
"So you helped her?" Camille’s voice was barely a whisper. "You helped her poison Harper?"
Ethan shook his head violently. "No! God, no. I never wanted Harper to be hurt. I would never hurt her. I told her to back off, I told her she was crazy. I didn't know she would go through with it."
"But you paid her off," Camille accused, her voice rising to a shriek. "You gave her the money, didn't you? You were in contact with her!"
"I was trying to stop her!" Ethan grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. "I didn't know it was going to be that bad. I just wanted her to leave us alone. I was trying to protect us."
"You're lying," Camille said, looking past him, seeing the monster she had married. "You helped set this up."
"I didn't!" Ethan pleaded, his eyes wide and wet. "I swear, Camille. I love you. I love Harper. I'm the only one who can help her now. Please, just trust me."
Camille looked at him—really looked at him. The man who had held her hand at the hospital. The man who had brought her coffee. He was a co-conspirator. He was just as guilty as Vanessa. The betrayal wasn't just emotional; it was lethal.
May you like
She pulled away from his grip, stepping back into the cold light of the garage. Ethan slumped against the car, defeated, but his eyes still held a desperate, pleading light.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
