I stopped.
“What?”
“The bottom drawer. Don’t open it.”
Pink liquid dripped onto my sock.
“Something inside is leaking.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Please.”
His voice sounded wrong.
Ben is not dramatic.
We’ve been married twelve years, and I’ve watched him stay calm through a car accident, a kitchen fire, and our dog swallowing half a dish towel.
Now he sounded panicked.
“What is in there?”
“Just leave it closed.”
“What’s leaking?”
Silence.
“Ben.”
“I’ll be home in 20 minutes.”
Then he said, “Please don’t open it before I get there.”
I stared at the drawer.
Locked.
I had never noticed that before.
“Why is it locked?”
“Claire.”
“What is in there?”
“I’ll explain when I get home.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No.”
“Illegal?”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting like I found a body?”
He exhaled.
“It’s not my secret to tell.”
That sentence was worse than everything before it.
