“The building is called The Grand Huron,” Arthur said. “It is a new development. He was carrying two large shopping bags from the boutique grocery store on the corner.”
“He must have been visiting a contact,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“Perhaps,” Arthur said, studying his teacup. “But he seemed to have his own keycard for the side entrance. I did not want to interrupt him, but it seemed unusual.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” I said.
I stood up, leaving the half-empty bottle of water on the table.
The digital registry file on the third floor was still active, but the evening nursing shift change would occur at seven o’clock, bringing in a new team and a different set of logins.
I walked back toward the elevators, my hand reaching into my pocket to touch the thumb drive.
If I did not secure the paper copy of Lauren’s billing record now, the digital signature could be altered or archived by the morning.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed three.
The metal doors slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving me alone in the small car.
The elevator climbed slowly, the numbers lit in red on the panel above the door.
When the doors opened on the third floor, the corridor was quiet, the afternoon light fading behind the frosted glass of the double doors.
I walked toward the nurses’ station, my shoes making no sound on the rubber flooring.
Helen was still there, sorting through her final shift reports before the night staff arrived.
“Helen,” I said, leaning on the desk. “I need you to print that registry page for room three hundred and twelve before you log out.”
She looked up, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “The file for the new baby?”
“The billing department needs the physical copy of the guarantor signature page to verify the address,” I said.
She clicked the printer icon, and the machine behind her began to hum.
The paper slid into the tray, warm to the touch.
I took the sheet, folded it in half, and walked back toward the elevator.
The printed page contained the confirmation of Ethan’s signature, signed on the very day he claimed to be over the Atlantic.
I folded the paper carefully and placed it inside my notebook.
I needed to secure the digital registry file on my own drive before the night shift took over the terminal.
The paper sat in my leather bag on the passenger seat, the ink still fresh enough to smell of warm toner.
I parked the sedan on Elm Street, forty minutes before Ethan was due back from his trip.
The Chicago brownstone was quiet, the radiators ticking behind the dark wood panels as the autumn air seeped through the window frames.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa with my hands flat on my knees, watching the headlights sweep across the living room ceiling.
At ten past seven, the passenger door of his sedan clicked open in the driveway.
Ethan stepped into the foyer carrying a glossy white shopping bag with a blue silk ribbon from a boutique on the Rue Saint-Honore.
He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he dropped his leather briefcase onto the hardwood floor.
“Hello, Claire,” he said, stepping toward me with his arms open.
He leaned down and kissed my cheek, smelling of peppermint and the cold autumn air.
I kept my shoulders perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the white paper bag.
“You are home early,” I said, my voice sounding more clipped than usual.
Ethan set the boutique bag on the coffee table, right beside my copy of the Journal of Trauma Surgery.
“I took the express flight out of Charles de Gaulle,” he said, rolling his gold wedding band with his thumb.
“The meetings wrapped up four hours ahead of schedule, and I could not wait to get out of that gray rain.”
I rubbed my left wrist, my thumb finding the edge of my watch under my cuff.
“Did you get everything you needed from the Paris office?” I asked.
“Every single signature,” he said, unbuttoning his charcoal coat.
“It was exhausting, but the logistics contract is secure.”
He reached into the glossy bag and pulled out a small, tissue-wrapped box.
“I found this in a little shop near the Seine,” he said, holding it out to me.
My hand remained flat on my knee, refusing to reach for the paper package.
“Set it down on the table, please,” I said.
He placed it next to the glossy white bag, his smile narrowing as he looked at my face.
“Is everything all right, sweetheart?” he asked.
“It was a very long shift at the hospital,” I said, looking at the blue ribbon.
“I had to spend several hours in the administrative wing.”
Ethan did not blink, but his hand went back to his pocket.
“Well, you need to rest,” he said, his voice warm and casual.
“I will start some dinner.”
“Did you stay at the hotel near the office?” I asked, keeping my tone level.
“The same one as last time,” he said, hanging his coat in the closet.
“They always have that fresh brioche in the morning.”
I knew the hotel had no record of him.
I had checked the joint credit card statement online before leaving the hospital.
The only pending charges were from a local grocery store on North Avenue and a baby boutique on Michigan Avenue.
“That sounds lovely,” I said.
“It is a beautiful city,” he said, walking into the kitchen.
“But it is always good to come home to you.”
The ease of his voice made my chest tighten.
He had spent the last three days less than two miles from our house, holding a child that was not mine.
By eight o’clock, the smell of roasted chicken filled the dining room, but the food on my white china plate remained untouched.
I moved a piece of potato from the left side of the gold-rimmed plate to the right, then back again.
Ethan sat across from me under the low light of the brass chandelier, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
“The weather in Paris was gray, but the meetings went exactly as planned,” he said, pouring more sparkling water into his tall glass.
“We had dinner at a small place in the sixth arrondissement, a wonderful little duck confit with a local Pinot.”
I watched his mouth move as he chewed.
I pictured the maternity nursery window, the pink blanket, and the soft, hesitant voice of Lauren.
I knew he had been standing in the hospital corridor while I was scrubbed in for the vascular case.
“Was the service good at the restaurant?” I asked.
“A bit slow, but you know how the French are about their dinners,” he said with a light laugh.
“They do not like to be rushed, especially when there is business to discuss.”
I picked up my fork and put it down again, the silver clinking against the china.
“It sounds expensive,” I said.
Ethan paused, his fork hovering an inch above his plate.
“It is all part of the business development budget, Claire,” he said, his eyes scanning my face.
“The logistics firm covers the travel.”
“Does it cover the boutique purchases too?” I asked, looking at the tissue-wrapped box still sitting on the sideboard.
“That was out of my own pocket,” he said, his tone softening.
“A little thank-you for putting up with my long hours.”
“Our joint account statement showed a large cash withdrawal on Tuesday,” I said.
Ethan took a slow sip of his water, his hand perfectly steady.
“I needed local currency for the taxi drivers and tips,” he said.
“Cards aren’t accepted everywhere in the old quarters.”
“Four thousand dollars is a lot of tips, Ethan,” I said.
He set his glass down, the bottom of the crystal making a sharp sound against the wood.
“We are launching a new division, Claire,” he said.
“I have to grease the wheels.”
I looked at the oil painting of the Maine coast on the wall behind him, bought with my first surgeon’s salary.
“I see,” I said.
“Don’t worry about the accounts,” he added, reaching across the table.
“We are in a very good position.”
“You didn’t eat much of the chicken,” Ethan said, gesturing to my plate.
“I had a late lunch with Arthur Vance at the hospital,” I lied.
“How is Arthur?” he asked. “Still complaining about the emergency room budget?”
“He is managing,” I said. “He asked about you.”
Ethan’s hand stopped moving his fork for a fraction of a second.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you were traveling,” I said, watching him carefully.
He nodded, his posture relaxing.
“Good,” he said. “The logistics network is expanding, and we need to keep our cards close to our chest.”
By midnight, the house was dark, but the light under the guest bedroom door was still yellow.
Ethan had moved his clothes there three months ago, claiming his late-night logistics calls to Europe were keeping me awake before my morning shifts.
I knocked once and pushed the door open before he could answer.
He was sitting on the edge of the mattress in his grey t-shirt, a yellow legal pad in his lap and a stack of bank receipts beside him on the quilt.