He doesn't look surprised. "What kind of check?"
"Everything. Phone records, movements, contacts. Make sure there's no connection to Patrick's network. No communication with anyone suspicious."
"Boss, we've been monitoring her constantly since the confession. There's been nothing—"
"Then check again." My voice hardens. "She's hiding something. I need to know what."
He nods. "I'll have a full report by morning."
But morning comes and the report shows nothing. No suspicious calls. No unexplained absences. No contact with anyone connected to Patrick or his organization.
Clean.
Too clean, my paranoia whispers. Or maybe she's just actually innocent this time.
I watch her throughout the day.
She barely eats breakfast. Pushes food around her plate, claims she's not hungry.
Refuses wine at dinner. Says she's not in the mood, wants water instead.
Excuses herself early, claiming exhaustion despite sleeping ten hours the night before.
And she won't let me touch her stomach. Every time my hand drifts there during sex, or while we're lying together, she redirects it. Subtle. Probably thinks I don't notice.
I notice everything.
That night I find her in the bathroom at 2 AM. The door is cracked open, and I hear her retching, the sound of someone violently sick.
I push the door wider.
She's on her knees in front of the toilet, face pale, hair pulled back. When she sees me, she jumps. Actually flinches like I've caught her doing something wrong.
"How long have you been sick?" I ask.
"Just tonight. Must be something I ate—"
"Don't." I move closer. "Don't lie to me. I've heard you throwing up for four mornings in a row. This isn't food poisoning."
She wipes her mouth with shaking hands. "It's just a stomach bug—"
"Is it?" I crouch beside her. Study her face. "Or is it something else? Something you're too terrified to tell me?"
Tears well in her eyes. "Lev, please. I just need—"
"Two more days. I know." I stand, frustration burning through me. "But every secret you keep feels like another betrayal. Every time you hide something, every time you deflect or lie, it reminds me that I can't trust you. That maybe I never should have tried."
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like?" My voice hardens. "Because from where I'm standing, you're exhibiting the exact same behaviors you did when you were spying for Patrick. Secret calls. Guilty expressions. Avoiding my questions. How am I supposed to differentiate between genuine and deception when they look identical?"
She's crying now. Full tears streaming down her face. "Because I'm begging you to trust me. Just two more days. Please."
I want to demand answers. Want to shake the truth out of her. Want to stop feeling like I'm standing on unstable ground.
But I gave my word.
"Two days." I head for the door. "Then I want the truth. All of it. No more delays. No more excuses. Understand?"
