Chapter 2 Don’t You Worry About a Thing
'A WEEK AND SOME DAYS LATER'
The sun spilled its pale gold across the sleek windows of the upstate clinic, its warmth wasted on the sterile, clinical cold of the corridors. Andrew Lock’s polished leather shoes clicked softly on the marble floor as he made his way down the long hallway. His tall frame cut a commanding figure, his navy-blue tailored suit crisp, his brown beard trimmed to perfection. In his left hand, he held a bouquet of fresh lilies and white roses — the perfect accessory to his carefully manufactured image of the grieving, attentive husband.
The faint scent of antiseptic stung his nostrils. His jaw was set, though his lips curled into a smile — a hollow one that never reached his eyes.
“Morning!” he said as two nurses approached, his voice honeyed and warm.
“Morning, sir!” they replied in unison, smiling back, clearly used to his routine visits.
Andrew’s smile stayed plastered on his face until they had walked past him. Once he was sure no one could hear, the mask slipped. His eyes hardened.
“How long will I keep faking this?” he muttered under his breath, the words heavy, bitter.
As he approached Maggie’s door, his hand hovered over the handle. His chest rose and fell once, twice, as though bracing himself. His lips pressed into a thin line before curling into a sneer.
“Why couldn’t you have just died when I pushed you down the fucking stairs?” he hissed under his breath, his voice low, guttural.
He drew a deep breath, forcing his expression back into something warm, kind. Then, with a push, the door swung open.
The room was quiet save for the steady beep of the heart monitor. Maggie lay still on the bed, her body small against the expanse of crisp white sheets. The gauze wrapped around her head was stark against her pale skin.
Andrew shut the door behind him and exhaled, the fake smile evaporating from his face. He crossed the room with a casual stride and set the fresh bouquet on the windowsill, replacing the wilting flowers he had brought three days ago.
He leaned over her bed, his shadow falling over her unconscious form. His face twisted with disgust as he stared at her.
“Just don’t wake up, bitch,” he whispered, his lips inches from her ear, his voice laced with venom. “Die. You’re of no use to me anymore. I’d love nothing more than to strangle you right now — watch the life drain from your eyes — but your autopsy would show you were strangled. And they’d know it was me. So do me a favor… just die.”
But before he could straighten up, Maggie coughed.
Andrew’s head jerked back so fast it was almost violent. His heart slammed against his ribs. Her eyelids fluttered open, groggy, confused.
Shit. Did she hear me?
“Heyyyyy,” Andrew said quickly, forcing his fake smile back onto his face, masking the panic in his chest. “You’re awake!”
Maggie blinked slowly, disoriented. The oxygen mask muffled her faint voice. “Who… who are you?” she whispered, her tone fragile.
Andrew’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“Where am I?” she asked, her gaze darting around the room in confusion.
Andrew hesitated for a second before plastering on an even warmer smile. “I’m your husband,” he said gently, placing his hand on her arm with mock tenderness.
“My… husband?” Maggie repeated slowly, as if tasting the word for the first time. “I’m… married?”
“Yes,” Andrew said, leaning closer, his voice soft and coaxing. “It’s me — Andrew. Don’t you remember? We’ve been married for seven years. We have a six-year-old son.”
Maggie’s eyes widened, her breathing picking up. “Seven years? A… son?” she echoed in a whisper, her voice small.
“So you really don’t remember?” Andrew asked, his fake concern beginning to melt into something else — a faint, genuine smile of relief tugged at the corners of his mouth.
She shook her head weakly. “No… nothing.”
“Not even from a few nights ago?” he pressed, just to be sure.
“No,” she whispered, her brows knitting together. “Please… who am I?”
Andrew’s lips parted, ready to answer — but the door clicked open.
The attending doctor entered, followed by a nurse. Andrew immediately straightened up, stepping aside, slipping right back into his performance.
“Doctor,” Andrew said urgently, pointing toward the bed. “She doesn’t remember anything. What’s happening to my wife?”
The doctor’s expression tightened, his brows furrowing as he approached. “I was afraid this might happen,” he said, his tone measured. “Given the severity of the head injury, memory loss is a possible outcome.”
He moved closer to Maggie, his voice softening as he began a quick examination. The nurse turned to Andrew politely.
“Mr. Lock, could you please wait outside for a few moments?” she said.
Andrew nodded, masking his impatience, and stepped out into the hallway. He leaned against the wall opposite the room, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the closed door.
Minutes crawled by.
Finally, the doctor and nurse emerged. The doctor cleared his throat and approached Andrew, his expression grave.
“Mr. Lock,” he said carefully, “based on the results of the tests we’ve run, there is a significant chance your wife may never regain her memories. We’ll keep running tests and have her on medications that might help, but…” He shook his head, his face unreadable. “You should prepare yourself for the possibility.”
Andrew nodded solemnly, his mask of concerned husband still firmly in place. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said softly.
The doctor nodded once before leaving with the nurse trailing behind him. Within moments, their figures disappeared down the hall.
And the mask shattered.
Andrew’s lips stretched into a grin so wide it almost hurt. He glanced left, then right. No one was in sight.
“Yes!” he hissed under his breath, pumping his fist in the air, his voice low but triumphant. “Yes!”
He straightened his suit jacket, smoothed his beard, and drew in a slow breath, recomposing himself. By the time he pushed the door open again, his face wore that same perfectly calculated look of gentle concern.
“Hey,” he said softly, approaching Maggie’s bed, his tone dripping with false warmth. “I just spoke to the doctor. You’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, took her hand, and smiled down at her as though nothing in the world mattered more to him.
But deep inside, behind the mask, Andrew Lock was smiling for real this time — because as far as he was concerned, Maggie’s memory loss had just given him the perfect alibi.