Chapter 11 - The Counter-Move
I took the mug from his hands, murmuring my gratitude, and set it carefully on the nightstand beside our bed. While Ethan stepped into the walk-in closet to change out of his suit, I moved with silent speed. I dumped half of the lukewarm tea into the soil of the large potted ficus by the French doors, then wiped the rim with a tissue to leave a telltale lipstick mark.
If he wanted me asleep, he would get his wish.
By eleven o'clock, the storm had fully arrived, lashing the bedroom glass with violent sheets of rain. I lay beneath the heavy duvet, breathing in deep, steady rhythms, forcing my muscles into absolute slackness.
Ethan stood beside the bed for nearly three minutes in total darkness, watching me. I felt his hand brush against my cheek, his fingers cool and dry.
"Almost over, Clara," he whispered softly, his tone laced with a twisted tenderness that made my stomach churn. "Just a few more days."
He turned on his heel. The bedroom door clicked shut. Ten seconds later, the faint chime of his private study door unlocked downstairs.
May you like
I opened my eyes into the pitch blackness. My muscles ached from the tension, but my mind was clearer than it had been in years. I slipped out of bed, pulled on dark wool trousers, running shoes, and a black sweater. From my dresser drawer, I retrieved the hidden thumb drive I had prepared earlier and the spare keys to the conservatory shed. It was time to find out what Dr. Vance had delivered in that aluminum case.
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