"Something is wrong," Sterling's voice drifted through the crack in the door. It was a hushed whisper.
"Speak," Arnulfo replied. Then came the sound of a lighter flicking.
"I reviewed Verity Guy's medical files before the marriage," Sterling said. "Routine check. She has a clean history. A broken arm from skiing when she was twelve. Some cosmetic work on her nose. That's it."
A pause. Smoke exhaled.
"But that woman in there..." Sterling continued. "Those scars on her back are at least ten years old. The burns? Those are from childhood. That body has been through a war, Arnulfo. That is not the skin of a pampered socialite."
Erline's heart hammered against her ribs. He knows.
"Are you saying I married a fake?" Arnulfo's voice was dangerous, low and vibrating with threat.
"Or the Guy family has secrets," Sterling said. "You know these old money families. Their closets are full of skeletons. Maybe Verity was the punching bag."
"Interesting," Arnulfo said. "Dig deeper. I want to know everything about her past twenty years. Every doctor visit. Every school report."
"I'm on it."
Footsteps faded. Then, the door pushed open.
Arnulfo walked back in. He smelled of tobacco.
Erline kept her eyes closed, regulating her breathing. In. Out. Slow.
He didn't say anything. He walked to the bed. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down. He was close.
"Stop pretending to be asleep," he said.
Erline stiffened. She opened her eyes slowly.
Arnulfo was holding a tube of ointment. He tossed a white dress shirt onto the bed. It was his.
"Doctor says you need to rest. Put that on."
Erline sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. She grabbed the shirt. She turned away to pull it on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. It was huge on her, hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine.
She turned back. Arnulfo was watching her.
"Did you like playing with fire when you were a child?" he asked suddenly.
It was a trap. The cigarette burns.
Erline looked at him, keeping her face blank. She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows. She pointed to her throat, then her ear, and shrugged. I don't understand.
She was playing the fool.
Arnulfo stood up. He loomed over her, planting a hand on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.
"I don't care who you are," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "You walked through my door. Your life is mine."
He grabbed the ointment and tossed it into her lap.
"Apply the rest yourself. I'm not your nurse."
He straightened up and walked into the bathroom.
Erline let out a breath she had been holding for five minutes. He suspected, but he didn't know. Not yet.
She looked at the bathroom door. She had to move fast. Tonight. While he slept. She had to get into his study.
