Alice had been wearing my clothes in my bedroom while I was at work, and my son had been counting to fifty in the hallway. And the question haunting me wasn’t just what Alice was doing in there.
It was whether she was doing it alone.
That night, after Mason was asleep, I called my best friend while pacing the kitchen, lights dim, voice low.
“Sheryl,” she said slowly over the phone when I finally stopped, “what if it’s not just Alice?”
“Don’t,” I said sharply, pressing my palm against the counter.
“I’m just saying… your husband’s been working late. You said he’s been unusually cheerful in the mornings.”
“I said don’t,” I repeated, squeezing my eyes shut.
I didn’t want to think it. I refused to think it. Not him. Not in our own bedroom.
But that night, lying awake staring at the ceiling while my husband slept beside me, I couldn’t stop the thoughts. I reached for my phone and searched for small hidden cameras.
Earliest delivery—three weeks.
