Layla woke up as Amara's car jolted to a stop in front of her house. Her feet ached, she had vomited twice from her sister's driving, and she wanted to crawl into bed and sleep forever. Being pregnant was no picnic.

"So, same time next week?" Amara joked. At least, Layla hoped she was joking.

"I thought we were only meeting for serious things, like plotting murders and getaway cars," she said, her voice only holding a trace of sarcasm.

"Of course," said Amara. "Isn't this serious to you?"

"You never told me why you came back." Her voice sounded a shade more vulnerable than she liked, and she hated it.

"I told you. Your husband wants to kill you."

Layla rolled her eyes. "Did I ever tell you I had a stalker during my first year working as a journalist? Where were you then? Protecting me, or did you only return when it was convenient for you, Amy?"

"I'm here now." Amara's dark eyes looked earnest. Sincere. Open.

But if there was one thing she'd learned from her career it was that the easy thing to believe was rarely the truth. And she wanted to trust her sister. She really did. "I have to go before Hayden sees me."

"Bye." Unexpectedly, Amara leaned in for a hug over the console. Her older sister was an inch shorter than her, her hands calloused where Layla's were soft though she gardened (she wore heavy gardening gloves), but her hug felt protective, safe, like family. She smelled like homecooked meals and lemon detergent and the rose perfume their mother always wore. Like a time that she could never return to.

"Bye," Layla echoed, unlatching the car door and stepping onto the sidewalk. Just then, Hayden's car came screeching along the driveway, pulling into his usual parking spot. He got out just as Amara's car sped off.

"Who was that?" he asked her.

Not this again. "Amy, our neighbour."

"What was she doing here?" he asked.

"I told you she would give me a ride from work." She affected confusion, letting a frown pinich her brows together. "Didn't I tell you this morning? I must have forgotten..."

"I could swear I've seen that license plate before." He shrugged in the span of one tense moment that tied knots in her stomach. "Huh. How was your day?"

She launched into a fake story about the printer jamming at work. He laughed and nodded at all the right places. Layla wrote the script. Hayden always walked into all the right stage directions. One day, they'd have to play the truth, not just the lies they wanted to believe.

"You know what's crazy?" he said. "You'll never believe who I ran into at the dealership today."

"Who?" she said, leaning an elbow against the porch railing as he unlocked the front door.

"Vihaan, your coworker," he said, pushing the door open. "He was at the office party, right?"

Layla tried to smile. "Yep."

"I like him," he said, but it was in the same tone that he'd said he liked Amara, and she was beginning to think they had different definitions of the word. She would have to start a Hayden Dictionary. Like: meaning, to be interested in, to find fascinating, to absolutely loathe, to trust as far as one can throw them...

"He's okay." She shrugged.

Hayden threw his jacket on the couch. She didn't have the energy to tell him to hang it up. He glanced at her. She'd missed a beat of their choreography, and he was questioning her. Not, are you okay? But, what is wrong with you?

Not a shred of concern lay between them. Only suspicion.

Was this what they had come to? Interpreting and reinterpreting and misinterpreting every sign, every breath, every word spoken or unsaid?

"We need to talk," he said.

She had the bizarre urge to break something, but she didn't know if it was from his voice or the words he spoke with them. "About what?"

"Layla, what's happening to us?" he said, spinning around. "I don't know what's happening, but I don't like it."

She wrapped her jacket tightly around her body, feeling the gusts of air conditioning buffet her bare arms. Or maybe it was the way Hayden was looking at her, like she was a broken toy and he was trying to figure out who had dashed it to pieces. As if he knew her secrets already--her tiny flaws--her buildup of lies--and was trying to figure out only who else was involved in them. "I don't know what you mean."

It was best to feign ignorance. Men liked that; if they liked anything. Liked to feel smart, to explain things, to feel needed. Useful. That was why she'd spent so much time doing everything by herself, from shovelling the sidewalk to mowing the lawn to refusing his habitually persistent offers of breakfast.

They had a routine. He offered. She turned him down. They chased each other in a dogged circle until one of them gave in, waiting for the other one to be worn down and say yes or accept no.

"You know what I mean, Layla. Don't play dumb." Or maybe not. Maybe Hayden was different. But she'd spent her journalistic career classifying everyone into the same few boxes and casting them in the same rigid moulds. She didn't know how to stop now.

"Be more specific." She rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering.

He picked up the throw blanket on the couch and extended it to her. She made no move to take it. "You're freezing."

"Hang up your jacket," she bit out. If he wanted her to complete the script, to say her lines and slot the puzzle piece into place, she'd do it. Anything to avoid looking at the cracks in the ice beneath their feet. "I'm fine."

But she didn't fight him when he draped the blanket around her shoulders, warm cashmere scratchy against her skin.

"You look pale." Hayden picked up his jacket, hanging it in the closet before slamming the door shut. It shook, and then she realized she was shaking, trembling with cold. "What's wrong?"

"I thought you knew," she said. "That's why you wanted to talk, right? Because something's wrong, and you want to fix it?"

"Something is wrong, Lay. I can sense it."

She sat down on the couch, staring at the TV. "You can sense it? Was that your M.O. as an FBI profiler?"

"Why are you bringing up the past?" Hayden paced in the kitchen; she could hear his socked feet swishing against the linoleum and each step made her nails dig into her palms.

"It's not so distant." He'd only left the FBI six months ago, after all. "Maybe I'd like to know more about your work, Hayden."

"It's over." Something in his tone was like another brick in the wall between them. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about this, then." Two could play at the silent treatment.

"Why are we married?" he said, marching into the living room and sitting across from her in a white leather armchair. "What's the point, Lay? Do you even love me anymore?"

She knew her lines. Of course, I love you! How can you even say that?

But Amara's words echoed in her mind. A new voice, a new script, a new role to play. You can't trust him, Layla.

I'm your sister.

You're my family.

Have I ever hurt you?

"I'm tired," she said, but her voice broke and a tear slid down her cheek. "It's been a long day."

She could see the words, see her tears, and how they immediately shattered the anger on Hayden's face. He was weak. Soft. Loving. Too good for her. Too little for her.

"Of course," he said softly. "Go rest. We can talk about this tomorrow."

#

"Hayden," Layla said when they got ready for bed that night. "I was at your office the other day doing an interview because I was writing a piece about nonprofits and youth centres."

"Mmhmm?" He hoped he sounded distracted enough as he brushed his teeth, even as his heart raced at her words. Hayden spat out a glob of toothpaste into the sink. "What about it?"

"Well..." she pulled her satin pyjama shirt over her head, cream with black piping. "I thought you would be there. But then I was talking to this guy, Frank in accounting--"

He almost choked on his toothbrush. "You talked to Frank?"

Frank was the worst employee he'd ever seen at Rise Up. Possibly because he was also assigned by the FBI to keep an eye on Hayden, and absolutely hated his job, but only kept it because of higher-ups pulling the strings.

"Yeah, and he told me that you were out with Carly for an appointment. But then I thought about it, and I remembered I was calling you the other day, and you were with her then, too. Aren't ultrasounds once a month?"

He rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth before speaking. "There was an emergency appointment. She was bleeding."

"Oh, no." Layla clapped a hand to her mouth, pausing as she put on her pyjama pants. "Is she okay? The baby?"

He hadn't realized she was quite so invested in the life of a girl she'd never met. "She's fine. The gynecologist said it was just normal bleeding. Just a little spotting."

"Why didn't she call an ambulance?" Layla said, putting her hands on her hips.

Hayden shrugged, hoping he looked dismissive enough without being suspicious. When had their marriage become nothing more than an endless parade of performances? "I don't know."

"Huh." She finished putting her pants on and climbed into bed, pulling an eye mask over her face. "Well, I'm going to hit the hay."

"I'll be up a little late," he said, but she was already sound asleep when he turned out the bedroom light, the only illumination coming from the glow of the bathroom.

Finishing up his toilette, he stripped down and slid into bed with his laptop.

Hayden watched the security feed from Vihaan's apartment, balancing the computer on his knees as he sat in bed, the reading lamp on. Layla's soft snores created a gentle rhythm as he stared at the grainy feed showing him Vihaan's apartment. After Vihaan's GPS tracker had taken him to a ritzy apartment in an expensive part of town, he'd waited until the man was at work and had disguised himself as a delivery man, bringing in an official-looking clipboard and a trolley with boxes while wearing a cap pulled low over his head.

He'd managed to go up the elevator to Vihaan's apartment, wondering how it was that the security in such an upscale apartment was so very lax. The cardboard boxes were mostly empty, except for a few carrying discreet cameras and microphones. He'd attached them in hard-to-find places: the bottom of floor lamps, the screws in paintings, the robot vacuum. Then, he'd connected the feed to his second (work) computer and waited.

Of course, in the meantime, he had also done some digging. Which was how he'd found the loose floorboard in the guest room that hid a box of cigarette butts and the safe whose combination had been easy enough to crack after watching Vihaan do it through the camera. The latter held wads of cash in American dollars, Canadian dollars, euros, and Great British Pounds. It also contained three passports: one from Britain and two from America, all with different names. The first American one listed his name as Vihaan Bakshi, while the second called him Ben Jones, and the British one called him Zuriel James.

It was curious indeed. There was enough evidence there to damn a man to prison if Hayden hadn't just set up an invasion of privacy that would certainly damn himself to prison. Yet what was even more curious was the fact that he'd watched the man make several phone calls on a burner phone.

They were all to politicians, he'd realized after finding out the phone numbers from hearing the combination of beeps. And not just any phone numbers, but--from a dark web search--their personal numbers. Senator Jacob Underwood, the Treasury Secretary, even the First Lady.

Who really was Vihaan Bakshi, if that was his name at all?

He pondered the question as he shut the laptop, casting a glance over at his sleeping wife. She looked so serene. So peaceful. In the near-dark, she looked like nothing could bother her. Layla looked like she'd never hurt him, never been hurt.

Why had he asked her if she loved him? Because she'd locked their bedroom door and made him sleep on the couch? Because she was pregnant, and lying to him about it? Because she was jealous and confused and he was out of his mind from all the secrets between them?

He shut off the light.

In the dark, she looked like the woman he'd married.