She had told herself she was being paranoid.
She had hoped she was.
Now, with the house empty on a weekday afternoon, she pulled the memory card and sat down at her laptop and made herself watch.
She did not have to watch long.
The footage from two weeks prior showed Lyra crossing the living room in something sheer, unhurried, at home.
It showed Dorian come in a few minutes later, pull the drapes, and cross to her.
It was not ambiguous.
It was not a moment that could be explained by sleepwalking or stress or a merger.
It was forty-five unbroken minutes of two people who had clearly done this many times before, comfortable in a way that only history makes you.
Odette watched all of it, and she did not cry.