Beyond the thin fabric of the curtain, I heard Samuel talking in that smooth, polished tone he usually saved for his wealthy clients and total strangers.

“She’s always been terribly clumsy,” he told the attending physician, his voice dripping with false concern. “She spilled a big bowl of boiling soup all over herself while she was rushing around.”

The doctor paused before he answered, and I could hear the skepticism in his voice.

“Is that so, Mr. Sanders? A single bowl of soup caused deep, third-degree splash burns across her entire back, shoulder, and chest?”

Samuel didn’t miss a beat, layering on another lie.

“My wife panics easily, you see. She probably twisted her body as she was falling.”

Joyce chimed in then, with a practiced, trembling little sob that sounded completely rehearsed.

“Poor, sweet thing. We warned her again and again not to try cooking when she was so exhausted.”

I kept my eyes shut tight, listening to the web of lies they were spinning around me.

For three long years, they’d trained themselves to mistake my forced silence for plain stupidity.