Chapter 4 - The Husband Mask
"Claire?"
Flynn's footsteps quickened on the stairs.
I forced my eyes half-shut, letting my mouth hang open slightly.
I let my body go entirely limp.
He rounded the corner and stopped.
"Claire, baby, what are you doing out here?"
His voice was instantly laced with panic and concern.
It was flawless. Oscar-worthy.
"I was looking for you," I slurred, perfectly mimicking the heavy tongue I’d had that morning. "I feel strange."
He knelt beside me.
His hand brushed my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin.
For half a second, his eyes searched mine.
Cold. Calculating. Assessing the dosage.
Then the husband mask snapped back into place.
"You shouldn't be walking, sweetheart."
He slid one arm under my knees and the other behind my back.
He lifted me effortlessly.
I let my head loll against his shoulder.
My ear pressed directly against his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heartbeat was a slow, steady, rhythmic drum.
There was no adrenaline.
No spike of anxiety at finding his soon-to-be-murdered wife collapsed in a hallway.
He was carrying my corpse, and it didn't bother him at all.
"I'm so tired," I mumbled into his collarbone.
"I know, baby. I've got you."
He carried me back into our suite and laid me on the mattress with agonizing care.
He pulled the heavy duvet over my legs.
Then he walked to the nightstand and poured a fresh glass of water.
He reached into his pocket.
"Take your medicine, Claire."
He sat beside me, dropping two white pills into my open, trembling palm.
"Will it make me sleep?" I asked, keeping my eyes heavy.
"It will make everything better," he promised.
He watched my mouth.
He wasn't going to look away.
I placed the pills on my tongue, but immediately pushed them deep into my cheek cavity.
I took a large gulp of water.
I swallowed loudly, tipping my head back to show my throat moving.
I opened my mouth slightly, letting out a tired sigh.
Empty.
He smiled, satisfied.
"Rest now," he whispered, kissing my forehead. "I love you, Claire."
"Love you too," I breathed.
He stood up, dimmed the lights, and walked out.
The lock clicked.
I waited exactly thirty seconds.
Then I sat up, spat the soggy, bitter white pills into my hand, and wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist.
My whole body began to shake violently.
I had no allies.
I had no weapon.
I was trapped in the middle of the ocean with a family of sociopaths.
I stood up, my mind finally razor-sharp.
If Flynn was bold enough to plan a murder this cleanly, he had a communication line.
He had to be coordinating with someone on the mainland.
I moved to his luggage, laid out perfectly in the walk-in closet.
I unzipped his duffel bag.
Clothes. Shoes. A leather toiletry kit.
Nothing obvious.
I dug deeper, running my hands along the inner lining of his expensive suitcase.
There was a small tear near the bottom zipper.
I shoved my fingers inside.
Cold, hard metal.
I pulled it out.
It was a sleek, black smartphone.
Not the silver one he had been taking photos with all week.
I pressed the power button.
The screen lit up.
No passcode.
I tapped the messaging app, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Hundreds of texts.
May you like
All from a single contact saved simply as "S. ❤️"
Here are Chapters 5, 6, and 7. I have expanded the psychological tension, deepened the dialogue, and strictly followed your rules for paragraph spacing, character development, and chapter length.
