For three days, I pretended everything was normal.
I ate with Matthew, answered his questions, and secretly searched our house.
I found nothing until he left his laptop open one afternoon.
Inside an archived folder was an email titled “Ashley’s Fellowship Application.”
The attachment was mine.
It had been submitted three days after I decided to give up. The confirmation had gone to my email, making it appear as though I sent it myself.
Matthew had done it.
I searched further.
Graduate school.
A leadership seminar.
A writing conference.
A manuscript submission that eventually became my first published novel.
The work was mine, but whenever fear stopped me, Matthew pushed the final button.
That night, I confronted him.
“What trap were you talking about?”
Matthew did not deny the call. Instead, he led me into the garage and opened an old cedar chest hidden behind holiday decorations.
Inside were dated journals covering nearly every year of our lives.
The earliest began when we were fifteen.
“Ashley raised her hand in biology today. Only once. She nearly apologized afterward.”
Another entry read:
“She ordered lunch without asking me what she should choose.”
Then:
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