I started checking Lily's room three times a night.
First at eleven, when Magnus was still in the shower. Then at one, when I got up to pee anyway and told myself it wasn't a special trip. Then again around three, when the building settled into its usual creaks and every single one of them sounded like a footstep in the hall.
Her door was always the same. Cracked two inches, night-light glowing gold on the carpet, Mr. Buttons wedged under her arm. She never woke up. I stood there anyway, one hand on the frame, until my heartbeat slowed down enough to let me go back to bed.
I told myself I had it handled.
During the day, I kept the folder on my phone updated — grainy photos, the note cards, a screenshot of a car I was pretty sure I'd seen twice on our block. I didn't send any of it to Magnus. I told myself I was protecting him from useless worry. The truth was uglier than that. Some old, stupid part of me still believed that if I said it out loud — *he's watching us, he won't stop* — it would become more real than it already was. Like silence was a kind of control.
It wasn't. I knew that. I kept doing it anyway.
The thumbnail thing got worse. I noticed it happening at dinner, my thumb pressed hard into the pad of my index finger while Lily told a long story about a girl at preschool who wouldn't share the good markers. I noticed it happening in the elevator, in the shower, once even in my sleep, because I woke up with a little red crescent already fading on my skin.
Magnus noticed too. Of course he did. He notices everything, and he watches me the way other men watch stock tickers — steady, unblinking, cataloguing small movements for what they mean.
He never asked me about it directly. That should have told me something.
On Thursday, Adaline brought Lily home from preschool, and there was a man in a dark jacket standing by the lobby door who wasn't part of our building's usual staff. I clocked him instantly, my whole body going tight, and then I recognized the earpiece, the stance, the particular stillness of someone paid to be invisible and failing slightly at it.
I found Magnus in his study that night, a laptop open, his sleeves rolled to the forearm.
"Who was the man at the door today," I said. Not a question. I didn't have the energy to make it sound like one.
He didn't look up right away. "Security. I added coverage for pickup and drop-off."
"You added coverage." I heard my own voice climb and didn't try to stop it. "When?"
"Monday."
"Monday." Four days. Four days of me not knowing there was a stranger tracking my daughter's route to preschool, four days of thinking I was the only one carrying this. "You didn't think to mention that to me?"
Now he looked up. His face was calm, unbothered, the same face he wore in board meetings right before he said something that ended someone's quarter. "It was an obvious precaution, Brynn. I wasn't going to wait for a formal request."
"That's not the point."
"Then what's the point."
I opened my mouth and found I didn't have a clean answer. The point was that he'd looked at me — at the drawer under my eyes, at the thumbnail I kept pressing into my own skin like I could push the fear back under the surface — and he'd made a decision without asking. The point was that he was right to. The point was that being right didn't make it less infuriating, because it meant he'd seen straight through the thing I'd been so careful to hide.
"You should have told me," I said, quieter now.
"I'm telling you now." He closed the laptop. Stood. Crossed the room in that unhurried way he had, like urgency was beneath him, and stopped close enough that I had to tip my head back to look at him. "You've been checking her door three times a night. I hear you get up. I know what your hands do when you're scared and won't say so." His voice dropped, low and even. "I wasn't going to sit here another week waiting for you to decide I could handle knowing."
Something in my chest cracked, small and sharp, the way it did whenever he saw me too clearly to argue with.
"I didn't want it to be real," I said. "If I told you everything, it would be real."
"It's already real, Brynn." He reached out and pressed his thumb gently over the mark on my finger, covering it, the way he always did — not asking me to stop, just letting me know he'd seen. "You don't have to carry it by yourself. You've never had to."
I wanted to stay angry a little longer. I didn't manage it.
"Tell me everything you've hidden from him," he said. Not a request either.
So I did. All of it — the flowers, the park, the car on the block, the letter I'd read to Petra out loud for the first time in five years. He listened without interrupting, his jaw tightening once, at the park, and again at Ethan's name, and when I finished he was quiet for a long moment.
"Good," he said finally. "Now I know exactly what I'm dealing with."
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent. Down the hall, Lily's night-light glowed gold under her door, and for the first time in a week, I didn't get up to check on her three times. I only needed to once.
