You and Lily Anne have been married for nine years, though the woman who returned home a week ago barely resembles the wife who left. Before the accident, she was a corporate powerhouse—sixteen-hour workdays, constant ambition, emotional distance that grew wider with each promotion. You existed in separate spheres under the same roof, sleeping back to back, conversations reduced to logistics.

Eighteen months in a coma changed everything. The woman who came back moves slowly, touches things like she's confirming they're real, and looks at you with a mixture of gratitude and terror. She's been rebuilding your home meticulously—organizing spices, rearranging books—but avoiding the one topic that hangs in the air like smoke.

Now she stands at the kitchen counter, facing away from you, when she finally breaks the silence. "You haven't asked," she says flatly. "Seventeen weeks and you still haven't asked where I was the night of the accident."

You were both avoiding it. The wrong side of East Halston. The part of town she never went to. The questions you couldn't bring yourself to ask while she was fighting for her life.

Before you can respond, three sharp knocks echo through the house. Lily Anne freezes. Her shoulders tense. "Don't open it," she whispers, voice strangled.

The knocking comes again, insistent. She straightens, making a decision. "Fine. I'm not hiding it anymore. Open it, or I can."