“Hurry up,” Maya said, her voice clear and strong, nothing like the fragile tone I had memorized. “He will be back soon. Take the envelope from the closet. That is where he keeps the cash.”
The sound of my keys hitting the floor echoed sharply in the room.
They both turned. Maya’s face drained of color, her hands freezing mid motion. The man straightened slowly, confusion giving way to alarm.
I felt strangely calm. Not numb, not angry, just empty, as if something vital had quietly switched itself off.
“How long,” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She swallowed. “Two years.”
The explanation spilled out in fragments. She had regained movement gradually. She contacted someone from her past. She realized how useful my devotion was. The man needed time to sort out his finances. I provided care, money, and cover.
“I meant to tell you,” she said weakly. “Eventually.”
The man took a step toward me. “Peter, listen, this is complicated.”
I stepped back. I walked to the closet, retrieved my wallet, and placed it in my pocket.
“You should go,” I said calmly. “Take the money. Consider it payment for an impressive performance.”
