My father-in-law served me soup every Saturday, and I would wake up three hours later with my blouse buttoned wrong. My husband always said, “Your blood pressure dropped,” until I recorded seven forbidden seconds.

At lunch, I pretended to drink the beef broth, but I barely even moistened my lips with the liquid. When I caught a faint whiff of a bitter, metallic smell hidden deep within the consommé, I quickly pretended to feel nauseous and pushed the bowl away.

Brian took me to the guest room just as he always did, and he laid me down on the bed with practiced efficiency. I kept my eyes closed tightly, pretending to be deep in an induced slumber while my heart raced against my ribs.

Then I heard him pull his cell phone out of his pocket. Click, the sound of a photo being taken echoed in the quiet room. Click, another photo followed immediately after.

Then I heard Frank’s deep, gravelly voice speaking from right behind him in the doorway. “Now it looks convincing enough for the documents,” he muttered with a cold, satisfied chuckle.