Winston Hills, Sydney — August 31st, 2008.
Morning, 9:36 A.M.
The kitchen smelled of toast and faint citrus cleaner. Daniel stood over the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands scrubbing a plate more aggressively than needed.
The house was still—Claire had taken Ethan to school. It should have been peaceful, but something in his chest felt like it was vibrating.
He glanced at the clock. 9:37 A.M.
The plate slipped slightly in his grip. He caught it before it hit the basin and exhaled slowly, placing it in the drying rack.
He dried his hands and walked to the hallway mirror. The man staring back had bags under his eyes, the skin at his jaw faintly bruised. He hadn't noticed it earlier.
He checked his wristwatch. He didn't remember putting it on this morning. In fact, he never wore it at home. The leather was damp, like it had been caught in rain.
He walked into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Half his shirts were missing. A few jackets he didn't recognise were hanging beside Claire's dresses—heavy ones, rougher fabric. He touched one, hesitating.
The bedside drawer was ajar. Inside were: receipts from bars he didn't remember going to. One dated from last night. Or was it the night before? A matchbox from some pub in Kings Cross. A faint smell of cigarettes clung to them.
He didn't smoke nor did his wife. How did these things come to the drawer?
He sat down on the edge of the bed, heart beating louder now. The silence wasn't calming anymore. It felt staged, like a pause before something important.
The door opened.
Claire walked in, setting her purse down. "Back early," he said.
"There was an issue with the school teacher. Ethan's class got cancelled."
He nodded. His fingers tightened slightly.
Claire looked at him carefully. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He forced a smile. "Just…tired?"
She didn't respond immediately. "Have you been going out?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your shoes were wet this morning. And I keep smelling smoke on your jackets."
"I haven't—" he stopped himself. "No. Not really."
"You said you'd quit those night shifts."
He blinked. "I did."
"Then why do you come home past 2 A.M?"
The room felt colder now. He didn't know how to answer that. He didn't remember driving in last night. Or the night before. He remembered putting Ethan to bed, then…nothing.
"Do you ever…forget things?" He asked.
Claire's eyes narrowed slightly. "Like what?"
"Like…hours. Nights."
Seeing him struggle to speak, Claire decided not to press further.
"You've been tired. Overworked. Maybe it's stress."
He nodded slowly, unsure whether to hold onto that answer or be afraid of it.
Claire walked closer, reaching out to touch the faint bruise on his jaw. "Did something happen?"
He didn't flinch. But he didn't answer either.
She looked down at his hand. There was dried blood near the nail. Just a thin line. Like he'd scraped it against something.
Claire met his eyes. "Daniel. I think we should see someone."
He didn't argue. He just nodded.