My Husband Covered Up My Mother's Death

Three days after the dog attack, I sat in Patricia Ng's office on the forty-second floor of a glass tower in Midtown. She slid a folder across her desk. Divorce papers. Clean. Final. Ready to file.

"Sign here," she said. "And here. Initial the asset division on page six."

I signed. My right hand still throbbed where Duchess's teeth had torn through. The bandage made my grip awkward but I managed.

"We'll file Monday in Miami," Patricia said. "He'll be served Tuesday. By the time he realizes what's happening, you'll already be gone."

"Good," I said quietly.

I left her office at three-fifteen. Traffic was heavy on the way back to the estate. I sat in the back of the car and watched the city slide past. Gray buildings. Gray sky. Everything the same color as the stone I'd knelt on.

I got home at four-thirty.

Marie met me at the door. Her face was wrong. Too pale.

"Mrs. Carr—Ensley—the hospital called—"

I was already moving.

I drove myself. Forty minutes to Mount Sinai. I don't remember any of it.

They'd put Ensley in a private room on the cardiac floor. She was small under the white sheets. Sedated. An IV in her left arm. Monitors beeping softly.

A doctor I'd never seen before stood beside the bed. Young. Tired.

"Acute stress-induced tachycardia," she said. "Her heart rate spiked to one-ninety. We've stabilized her but she needs to stay calm. No stress. No agitation."

"What happened?" My voice came out flat.

The doctor glanced at her chart. "A visitor, according to the care staff. A Ms. Perez. She was with your sister for approximately twenty minutes before the episode."

I looked at Ensley's face. Peaceful now. Unaware.

In her right hand, crumpled against the sheet, was a piece of paper. I reached for it carefully. The nurse had tried to take it during transport but Ensley had held on so tightly they'd given up.

I smoothed it out.

A sketch. Pencil on notebook paper. Birds again. But these ones weren't flying. They were falling.

I folded it and put it in my purse.

"I'm staying," I said.

The doctor nodded and left.

I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. I held Ensley's hand—the one without the IV—and watched her breathe.

She didn't wake up until morning.

When she did, her eyes found mine immediately.

"She said you're nothing," Ensley whispered. "She said when you're gone I'll have no one."

I squeezed her hand. "She's wrong."

"Where will we go?"

"Somewhere safe," I said. "Somewhere with an ocean."

Ensley's eyes closed again. "Okay."

I stayed until the afternoon shift came on. Then I drove home and went straight to my laptop.

I opened the encrypted folder Patricia had sent me. I reviewed every document. Every account number. Every transfer authorization.

Everything was ready.

I sent one email: *Proceed with all transfers. Immediate execution.*

Then I closed the laptop and went to pack Ensley's things.

Nathaniel left for London on Thursday morning. Six a.m. flight. He kissed my forehead on his way out—a gesture so automatic it meant nothing.

"I'll be back Monday," he said. "Don't forget the Hargrove dinner Tuesday."

"I won't," I said quietly.

He left.

I waited one hour. Then I went to check on Ensley at the care quarters. She was still at Mount Sinai under observation. They were keeping her until Friday.

I was alone in the house.

At seven that evening, the doorbell rang.

I opened it.

Aitana stood on the steps. Behind her, two people I'd never seen before. A man—tall, expressionless—and a woman with sharp eyes and a mouth like a knife.

"Nathaniel asked us to go over some estate details with you," Aitana said pleasantly. "In the east study. It won't take long."

I looked at her. At the two strangers. At the way the man's hand rested near his pocket.

I could have said no. I could have closed the door.

But I wanted to see how far she would go.

"Of course," I said.

I followed them through the house to the east wing. The study Nathaniel never used. The one with the heavy door and the lock on the outside.

Aitana opened it. Gestured me in.

I walked inside.

The man—Brek, Aitana called him—closed the door behind us. I heard the lock turn.

Aitana was already seated at the desk. A glass of white wine sat beside her right hand. Beside her left, a pair of thin-nosed pliers.

She picked them up. Examined them in the light.

"Sit," she said.

Brek moved behind me. His hands closed around my wrists. He pressed them flat against the armrests of the chair.

I didn't fight.

Aitana stood and walked around the desk. She crouched in front of me. Her face was calm. Almost kind.

"This won't take long," she said softly.

She took my left hand. Positioned the pliers carefully under the nail of my index finger.

Then she pulled.

The pain was white. Absolute. It filled every space in my skull.

I bit down hard. My teeth went through my bottom lip. Blood filled my mouth.

I did not make a sound.

Aitana set the nail on the desk. Took a sip of wine.

"There was this little restaurant near the Seine," she said conversationally. "Nathaniel took me there last year. The duck was extraordinary."

She moved to the next finger.

Pull.

I tasted copper. My vision went gray at the edges.

She continued talking. About Paris. About the weather. About the sound Nathaniel made when he slept—a soft exhale, she said, almost like a sigh.

Middle finger.

Pull.

Ring finger.

Pull.

Pinky.

Pull.

She switched to my right hand.

By the third nail, I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Just a distant fire where they used to be.

Aitana finished the last one. Set the pliers down. Drained her wine.

"There," she said. "All done."

She stood and smoothed her skirt.

"Brek will take you to your room. Clean yourself up. Nathaniel wouldn't want to see you like this."

She walked out.

Brek released my wrists. I looked down.

Ten raw beds where my nails used to be. Blood running down my fingers onto my lap.

The woman handed me a towel.

I wrapped my hands and stood.

I walked upstairs to my bathroom. Locked the door. Ran cold water over the wounds until the sink turned pink.

Then I dressed them carefully. Gauze. Medical tape. My hands shook so badly it took twenty minutes.

When I was done, I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the tile.

I did not cry.

I just counted.

Seven days until Miami.

Seven days until I disappeared.

Seven days until none of this could ever touch me again.