Page 35 of Sleeping with the Enemy

“Some.”

“Liar.” Harper held her at arm’s length, studying her face with the same assessing look she’d probably used on patients for thirty years. “You’ve got bags under your eyes that I could pack luggage into.”

“It’s been a busy week.”

Harper’s expression said she wasn’t buying it, but she let it go. “Well, dinner’s almost ready. I’m told the chicken is going to change our lives, but don’t get your hopes up. I said the same thing about the risotto last month.”

“The risotto was fine,” Nadia said.

“It wasadequate. There’s a difference.”

They moved into the familiar rhythm of Sunday dinner: Harper back at the stove, stirring and tasting and muttering about cook times; Nadia pouring wine and setting out appetizers; Miller drifting in their wake, trying to find her footing in a routine that had always felt effortless.

“Wine?” Nadia held up the bottle.

“Please.”

She poured a generous glass, and Miller took it gratefully. The first sip went down too fast, gulping like water the wine that should be savored. Nadia noticed, Miller saw her notice, and neither of them said anything.

“How’s the big Shepry case?” Harper asked, her back still turned to them. “Last I heard, you were gearing up for depositions.”

Miller’s stomach clenched. “It’s…complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Yes, but this is more complicated than usual.”

Harper glanced over her shoulder. “Opposing counsel giving you trouble?”

The wine turned sour in Miller’s mouth. She set the glass down on a wooden coaster. “Something like that.”

Nadia’s hand found her elbow, a light but brief touch. “We don’t have to talk about work.”

“No, it’s—” Miller shook her head. “It’s fine, just a lot going on.”

They moved to the dining room when the chicken was ready. Harper served it with the ceremonial pride she always brought to new recipes, and Miller made the appropriate noises of appreciation as food was piled onto her plate. On the menu this week was roasted chicken, herb-crusted potatoes, and green beans with lemon juice and toasted almonds.

It was a meal that would normally make her mouth water. She pushed a potato across her place and cut a piece of chicken into smaller pieces, then smaller still.

“Not hungry?” Nadia asked, her voice pointedly neutral.

“I had a late lunch.”

Another lie. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Nothing stayed down. Her body felt entirely foreign and unreliable to her, keeping secrets she hadn’t even known herself.

The conversation flowed around her. Harper was talking about the ‘72 Honda motorcycle she was restoring, some problem with the carburetor that Miller should’ve been able to follow but couldn’t. Miller nodded when it seemed appropriate, made sounds of interest, but contributed nothing.

Gray-blue eyes, the scent of expensive perfume, the moment before?—

“Miller blinked hard and stared at her plate.

“Miller.”

She looked up to see both of her moms watching her. She had no idea what question she’d failed to answer.

“Sorry, what?”

Harper set down her fork. “Okay, what’s going on?”