My name is Vanessa. Roy and I had been married for twelve years, and we both worked at the same hospital. He was a respected chief surgeon, while I ran a busy gynecology practice two floors below his department.
We weren’t a perfect couple, but we had built a good life together.
Roy still brought me coffee before early shifts. He remembered my favorite takeout order and kissed my forehead before leaving for work. When I fell asleep on the couch, he covered me with a blanket instead of waking me.
Those small gestures had convinced me that our marriage was safe.
Looking back, perhaps I had confused comfort with certainty.
The trouble began on a Tuesday afternoon.
My final appointment was a new patient named Tessa. She looked to be in her late twenties, with carefully styled hair, expensive-looking shoes, and a fitted dress that emphasized her very round belly.
