"Sweetheart, can whatever it is wait? I'm a little busy right now!"
"Mommy..." Her daughter's voice was raw, barely a whisper.
Warren froze for a second, then softened his tone as much as he could. "Lily, baby, Mommy misses you too!"
"Just be a good girl and play with Daddy for a few days, okay? Mommy will see you on Monday!"
"Mommy, Lily's tummy hurts... Lily's so thirsty... Daddy melted, Mommy. Please come home..."
Lily was only five. She didn't understand what death was.
All she knew was that the blood pooling beneath me looked like a melted strawberry slushie.
Warren didn't understand what Lily meant.
"Be a good girl, Lily. Mommy's really busy right now. If you're hungry, go find Daddy, okay?"
"And you can't eat melted ice cream! Tell Daddy to buy you a new one! Be good, Lily! Mommy loves you!"
Warren hung up.
My phone drained its last sliver of battery and went dark.
Afterward, Warren and Tristan lay in bed, each lighting a cigarette.
Something seemed to nag at Warren. He grabbed his phone and called me back.
"The number you have dialed is currently powered off..."
Warren's expression soured. He tried again.
Same message. Powered off.
He stubbed out the cigarette in a hurry and reached for the dress draped over the chair.
"No, I need to go home and check. My husband's phone is off! Something about my daughter's call felt wrong."
My desperate soul caught a glimmer of light.
If Warren came home now, Lily still had a chance.
But Tristan caught Warren's arm. "It's one phone call. What could possibly be wrong?"
"He probably went somewhere and forgot to charge it."
"If you're really worried, just send him a WhatsApp message. Problem solved."
"Your husband and my wife are both gone for once. Can't we just enjoy this one week together?"
Warren hesitated, then set the clothes back down.
He picked up his phone and messaged me on WhatsApp instead.
"Babe, why is your phone off?"
"Lily just called me. Is everything okay?"
The message went through. The other side immediately showed typing...
A few seconds later, several photos from an airport appeared.
"Everything's fine. Took Lily out for a little trip. That kid was messing around with my phone again."
"Gotta go, the plane's about to take off."
That day, before Rosalind left, she had logged into my WhatsApp on her own phone.
Those messages were typed from her dim kitchen, a whetstone scraping steadily against a blade.
She said she wanted to make it look like I was still alive for as long as possible.
That way, when Warren finally saw my body, the agony would cut even deeper.
And somehow, those replies, riddled with holes, were enough to put Warren completely at ease.
He settled back into the king-sized hotel bed, comfortable as ever.
He reached over and draped an arm around Tristan's shoulders.
"You were right. My husband took my daughter on a trip. Looks like it's just the two of us this whole week."
Over the days that followed, Warren and Tristan let themselves go completely.
They spent nearly twelve hours a day tangled in the sheets.
Every morning and every night, Warren sent me a "good morning" and "good night" on WhatsApp, and Rosalind dutifully replied with scenic photos.
Some of those photos still had watermarks on them. Warren never once questioned a thing.
At first, I spent every day hoping Warren would catch the flaws in those messages and come home to save our daughter.
But now, my spirit hovered beside my dying child.
Numb. Hopeless.
Warren hadn't failed to notice the inconsistencies. He simply craved the thrill Tristan gave him.
So he chose to lie to himself.
On Friday, Rosalind sent Warren a picture of the family portrait Lily had drawn. The same one she'd brought home the day I died.
Warren's eyes welled with tears, overcome with emotion.
He decided on the spot to get the drawing tattooed over his heart.
Tristan went with him to the tattoo parlor.
When the artist reached the part of the design that was me, Tristan snipped off a strand of his own hair and had the tattoo artist mix it into the ink before pressing it into Warren's skin.
Warren called him shameless. But he didn't stop it.
The tattoo was finished on Monday.
Warren sent a photo to my WhatsApp, saying he couldn't wait to see the surprise I'd prepared for him.
By then, Rosalind had already pressed a freshly sharpened knife against Tristan's throat. Tristan had arrived at the house first.
Over WhatsApp, she kept urging Warren to hurry upstairs.
Warren suspected nothing. He pushed open the front door, gifts in hand.
The stench of decay nearly knocked him off his feet.
What greeted his eyes was my body, already bloated and rotting,
intestines exposed. And curled against my chest, our daughter.
