Connor’s habits fed her paranoia. Twice a week, like clockwork, he came home late. No clear explanations. And always the same pattern: straight to the laundry room, clothes in the wash, then into the shower. “Just trying to help,” he’d say. “So you can relax a little.”
At first, she tried to believe it. Maybe he really was trying. But even good intentions cast long shadows when they arrive late at night and disappear into locked drawers. Julia began to track the days, the hours, the frequency of Connor’s actions. Patterns emerged, and they weren’t comforting.