Page 24 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

Lyle — Present

“Well, I fucked up,” I mutter, leaning against the car while Maria hides in the bathroom.

A man walking by tosses me a sad nod, like he knows, like the whole damn world knows. Great.

When Maria finally comes out, her eyes are puffy, her cheeks blotchy. I straighten. “Maria—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Let’s just go.”

She slides into the passenger seat. I follow, getting behind the wheel, easing us back onto the highway.

For a while, the only sound is the tires humming against the asphalt, her shallow breathing, my fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” I say finally, “but… what do we do? I spent all of last night trying to come up with a solution, but for the life of me, I couldn’t.”

Her gaze stays locked on the window. “Why can’t we just get her to admit to the blackmail and threaten to turn her in?”

I shake my head. “We can’t. She was careful about not saying it outright. Besides—the fact isn’t whether the kid’s mine. The fact is whether I cheated on my wife with her.”

She shrugs, still refusing to look at me. “Technically, you didn’t.”

“They don’t care about technically.” I grip the wheel tighter. “And apparently, neither do you.”

I feel her gaze burn into the side of my face, but I keep my eyes glued to the road.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” I say finally. “You knew I—”

Her sigh cuts me off. “There’s a difference between knowing it and having to hear about it.”

My teeth clench. My chest twists. “Well… I get that.”

I don’t say the rest. That the thought of her and those two faceless men makes me want to track them down and—

No. Focus.

I pull into the lot at Fairview Nursing Home, the sign out front weather-faded but trimmed with neat little flowerbeds. My hands stay locked on the wheel even after I park.

I open my mouth—to say something, anything—but Maria’s door pops open. She gets out without a word.

I follow.

The air inside is warmer than outside, filtered and faintly chemical. There’s a mix of scents—bleach, lemon cleaner, something sharp and sterile—and underneath it all, a faint, sour note of age and medicine.

The lobby is dressed up to look cheerful: pale yellow walls, fake greenery, a bulletin board cluttered with flyers for bingo nights and hymn services. But it doesn’t mask the truth—this is still a place where people come to fade.

We approach the front desk, where a young woman in scrubs and a name badge is clicking through a computer screen. She glances up with the tired smile of someone who’s practiced it a thousand times.

Maria clears her throat. “We’re here to see Daniel Silva.”

The woman’s smile falters. She blinks, once, twice, and then her expression shifts—shock flickering across her face before she catches it.

“Oh,” she says softly.

Her eyes dart from Maria to me, then back to Maria, worry creeping in. She lowers her voice. “Please—have a seat. I’ll, um… I’ll let the nurse know.”

Maria stiffens beside me, and my gut twists.

I’ve seen that look before—the way staff try to soften their tone, buy time, brace you for something they don’t want to be the one to say.

And it’s never good.

We take a seat on the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs—thin, stiff, plastic-backed things that dig into your spine. For a nursing home, you’d think they’d know better than to skip the cushions.

We barely sit for ten seconds when an older man in a white coat approaches. His hair is grey at the temples, his walk brisk but careful.

“Dr. Silva?” he asks.

Maria swallows. “It’s Connelly now—but yes. I’m his daughter.”

He extends a hand. “I’m Dr. Mayer. I’m the resident physician here.” He pulls up a chair and sits down, his expression professional but kind.

“There’s something you should know before we go in,” he says gently. “About a year ago, your father suffered another stroke.”

Maria’s hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes widen, brimming.

Dr. Mayer nods slowly. “He survived, but the stroke left him with significant damage. A second event like that…” He pauses, searching for words. “It often compounds the deficits from the first. In your father’s case, it affected both his mobility and his cognition.”

Maria’s hand drops to her lap, trembling.

“He’s in a wheelchair now,” Dr. Mayer continues, his tone steady but careful.

“And he has marked memory loss. At times he can recall people or events, but it’s inconsistent.

Some days are better than others, but for the most part…

he has advanced dementia. He can recognize familiar routines and respond to kindness, but he may not recognize you. ”

He rises, smoothing his coat, and gestures for us to follow.

We walk through a set of glass doors into the courtyard, A few men sit scattered on benches, wheelchairs parked in a half-circle under the trees. Their chatter is low, broken by bursts of laughter that float into the air.

“Why weren’t we called when he had the stroke?” I ask Dr. Mayer, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

The doctor tilts his head, patient but firm. “Typically, we would inform next of kin—unless the patient specifically asks us not to. Which your father-in-law did.”

Maria’s head jerks toward him. “But I’m his emergency contact.”

Dr. Mayer’s expression shifts—sympathy tightening around his eyes. “I understand. But capacity can be complicated. At the time, he was clear and deliberate about not wanting anyone notified.”

“Oh.” The word slips out of her, flat and broken.

I slide my hand onto her shoulder, steadying her, though she feels stiff beneath my palm. Together we watch the men gathered under the trees, the sun catching on their thin hair, their pale hands resting on armrests or folded in laps.

One man stands out—not for what he’s doing, but for who he is.

White hair combed back, skin lined deep, shoulders slumped in a chair that doesn’t suit him.

His hands rest curled in his lap, fingers twitching faintly, his head tilted as he listens to another man in a similar chair.

His lips move every so often, like he’s agreeing or adding something to the story being told.

Maria’s breath catches beside me.

Her father.

Together, hand in hand, we walk closer once the man he’s talking to is wheeled away by a nurse in scrubs.

We stop in front of him. He smiles at us like we’re strangers.

“If you’re here for Trey, you’re too late. The nurse just took him to the visitors’ lounge.”

I nod. “We’re not here for him.” I crouch down, forcing a smile. “Do you remember me?”

He shakes his head, apologetic. “Sorry, young man. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Clearly, his eyesight isn’t much better either. I just smile, swallowing hard, when Maria kneels down beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

“We’re friends of yours,” she says softly. “Old friends.”

He chuckles. “Oh, how wonderful.”

Maria sits cross-legged on the grass. I follow her lead, sinking down beside her, the early sun warm on our shoulders.

“How are you?” she asks.

“I’m good, sweetheart,” he answers with surprising cheer. “This place is very nice. Are you thinking of moving in?”

Maria shakes her head. “Not quite yet. We have kids.”

His eyes brighten. “Oh, how sweet.”

Maria pulls out her phone. “Would you like to see their photo?”

He beams. “Why not?”

She scoots closer, scrolling through. One by one, she shows him pictures of our kids—candid shots, messy hair, missing teeth, grins caught between bites of food.

Then she hesitates before swiping to another. “This is them with their grandparents,” she says softly. Her thumb lingers, and then she adds, “…and my dad.”

The image flashes across the screen: him, years younger, the kids clambering over his lap.

He takes the phone from her, staring at it longer than the others. For a second his face shifts, like a curtain might be lifting.

Maria leans forward, breath held. “Do you recognize anything?”

He blinks, the moment slipping. His face smooths again. “What a wonderful family,” he says warmly, handing the phone back. Then he pushes on the armrest of his chair. “Well, I believe it’s time for my medicine.”

“Can I come with you?” Maria blurts.

He shakes his head. “No, I feel like I’m going to take a nap.” Raising a hand, he waves over a man in scrubs who comes to wheel him away.

“Can I come back?” Maria asks quickly, desperate. “To see you?”

He shrugs with a faint smile. “It’s a free world, young lady.”

Maria holds her smile until he’s gone, then turns to me, eyes brimming. “He didn’t even recognize me. I thought… I thought the photos—”

I pull her against my chest, holding her as tight as I dare. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Let’s go,” Maria whispers, her voice thin and frayed. She pushes herself up before I can answer. I follow, watching the stiff line of her back as we move through the halls, out the doors, and into the Texas sun.

We don’t speak until we’re in the car. The door slams shut, her seatbelt clicks, and then it breaks out of her.

“I can’t believe he’s like that.”

Her voice is sharp, jagged.

“That’s my dad, Lyle. My dad. And he looked at me like I was some stranger trying to sell him insurance.”

She presses her palms into her eyes, but the tears still slip through. “I thought maybe the pictures would help. That something would click. But nothing. Not even the kids. His own grandkids.”

She slams her hand against the dashboard. The sound is loud, but I don’t flinch.

“He used to know me better than anyone,” she chokes. “He raised me. And now—now I’m just some young lady in the courtyard.”

I grip the steering wheel, useless in my hands. My instinct is to fix, to patch, to fight. But this isn’t something I can win. This is one of those things you can only endure.

Her breathing comes in short, ragged bursts. I want to reach for her, but my hand hovers halfway, suspended. I don’t know if she’ll let me.

“Maria…” My voice comes out low, careful. “I know it hurts. But that—what you saw out there—that wasn’t your dad giving up on you. That was his mind betraying him. He didn’t choose it.”

She turns, eyes blazing through tears, and I brace for the hit.

“He still chose to cut me off,” she says, shaking her head. Her voice is sharp, but under it is something smaller—something raw. “I don’t know what Dr. Nina expected would happen, but it couldn’t have been this.”

I don’t argue. What would be the point? Instead, I start the car. The engine hums low, steady. I pull out of the lot and head toward town, not the highway.

Maria frowns, wiping at her cheeks. “Where are we going?”

I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m taking my wife to lunch.”

She lets out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh, just air leaving her lungs too fast. “Lunch? After that?”

I glance at her. “Yeah. After that. Because you need food in your stomach before you fall apart. And because I don’t know what else to do right now, except take care of you.”

Her mouth presses tight, like she wants to argue. But her shoulders drop the smallest bit.

“Fine,” she mutters, turning her face back to the window. “But it better not be somewhere with plastic silverware.”

I smile, a small, shaky thing, and turn the wheel toward Main Street.

Suddenly, with a burst of energy I don’t expect, Maria pulls out her phone, her lips curling into a smile that’s half mischief, half fury.

I glance at her, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

She’s already typing, thumbs flying across the screen. “Well, I can’t do anything about my dad’s health,” she says briskly. “And I can’t go back in time and break into the facility to make him forgive me.”

Her eyes lift to mine, sharp and bright in a way I haven’t seen all day. “So…” She taps her phone once more and leans back in the seat. “I’m gonna get a hobby.”

I blink. “A hobby.”

“Mm-hm.” Her smile spreads, dangerous now. “How to take a blackmailing bitch down.”

My jaw tightens. “Maria—”

“Don’t Maria me,” she cuts in, her voice fierce. “She came to our house, Lyle. Our house. Threatening you, threatening our life. She thinks she can scare us into paying her off? Oh no. If Dr. Nina wants me to channel my energy into something, then fine—this is it.”

I stare at her, half proud, half terrified.