But around Lily, something had changed.
Sometimes she would look at him and immediately touch her mouth.
Sometimes Daniel would whisper,
“Not now.”
Once, when I walked into the kitchen, I saw him quickly put a small white box into his pocket.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
He smiled. But his smile looked forced.
Then Lily stopped wanting dessert. That scared me more than anything.
Our eight-year-old daughter loved sweets.
Yet three nights in a row, she barely ate after dinner.
“Does your mouth hurt?” I asked.
She glanced at Daniel before answering.
“No.”
That glance stayed with me.
On Thursday night, I pretended to fall asleep. Daniel lay beside me for almost twenty minutes.
Then he moved. Carefully. Quietly. He slipped out of bed. I waited until the bedroom door closed.
Then I followed him. He went downstairs first. Into his office.
I watched from the dark hallway as he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk.
