Chapter 2

The next afternoon, I stood across the street from Evan’s office building beneath the awning of a dry cleaner.

At 3:17, the glass doors turned.

Evan stepped out carrying two iced coffees.

He waited beneath the entrance canopy, shielding the drinks from the wind.

Harper followed him outside a moment later, wrapped in a soft cream cardigan.

She walked up to him without asking what either drink was, then took both cups from his hands.

Evan stepped closer so the wind would not catch the napkins under the lids.

Harper took a sip of the black cold brew through the straw, swallowed, and then tasted the oat milk latte.

She took one more sip, then pushed the sweet cup back against his chest with a light laugh.

"Too sweet for me," she said, her voice carrying across the quiet street. "Claire will like it."

Evan smiled easily, took the rejected drink, and pulled open the heavy door to let her back inside.

I stood frozen in the mist until the glass stopped swinging.

I waited until the revolving door stopped moving before I unlocked my phone.

I saved the photo, the time, and her exact words in a blank note, attached the image, and locked my phone.

When he came home at six, the cup was waiting on the kitchen island.

"Less ice today," he murmured, kissing my cheek. "Better for the baby. Make sure you drink it."

"Thank you, Evan," I said quietly.

The plastic was completely room-temperature against my fingers.

Evan smiled and picked up his laptop.

“Do you want pasta or soup tonight?” he asked.

While he was in the shower, I poured the diluted brown syrup down the drain.

I peeled the label from the cup: 3:17 PM. Regular Ice.

I moved the photo, the receipts, and the label into a secure folder named 70.

I named it 70 because I wanted to remember the number exactly.

Seventy orders. Seventy afternoons. I copied the order confirmation into the same folder, locked my phone, and put it facedown beside the sink before he came back downstairs.

Late that night, my stomach heaved violently again.

I was kneeling on the cold bathroom tile, trembling with exhaustion, when Evan's phone began buzzing frantically on the nightstand.

The screen illuminated the dark bedroom with a preview from Harper:

Evan, please. She threw up again. I don’t know what to do.