text: My husband's name is Clark. When we were in high school, it used to be a pretty popular joke, to call him Superman. After all, he looked the part, with his dark hair and charming smile, not to mention the fact that he was the star of our football team. A perfect boy, my mother used to say. A perfect man, she now whispered to me, whenever we visited her. But, as some of you may know, when a relationship progresses, you start to look past the general, superficial traits that attracted you to a person and you start to learn about all the other little things that make them who they are. After some time, you love them more for those details than for what you first knew them for. Clark has many habits, many little quirks but the one that I enjoy the most, even if he despises it and will always shut me down whenever I mention it, is his sleep talking. Even when we were young, I already loved it, saw it as a way of looking directly into his psyché. Whenever he was stressed, sad or even aroused, I would know it, I would only have to listen as he slept and I would know *everything*. I spent hours upon hours just watching him as he slept and, even if his babbling wasn't always understandable, just the fact that I could know whether he was having a nightmare or not helped me in our relationship. It made me feel so close to him.I've never been annoyed by it, really. At least not until last month. Not until he started whispering other things than incoherent dreams and pieces of conversations that never happened. Not until he started talking about *them*. About the other women. The first time it happened, he had had a busy day at school, having had to organise a Sports day with several other teachers. At dinner, he barely had enough energy left to eat his food and he collapsed into our bed as soon as he reached it, leaving me to deal with the kids. This was no trouble however and, as soon as they were safely tucked into bed, I walked into our bedroom, only to hear him mutter : "Mary..." He said it a few more times, sounding quite stressed out. Already, my mind was whirling. Mary? Who was Mary? A coworker? A friend he didn't tell me about? I spent the next thirty minutes trying to come up with an explanation for this strange bit of sleeptalking and ended up convincing myself that it was nothing more than a strange dream, that nothing was amiss. The next morning, I still asked him if he had any new coworkers. He didn't. Still, it felt good to be sure. The next evening, it happened again. I stayed awake on purpose, my heart beating fast in my chest, waiting for him to say it to say her name again. I waited for a full hour before he spoke. "Janet..." he whispered, and I felt my heart drop. One name was fine but two? Two names of women I didn't know, I had never heard of? I was starting to get suspicious and, from now on, I would stop myself from falling asleep before him, listening with a heavy heart as he listed more names. Mary. Janet. Claire. Alex. When they were apart, those names seemed innofensive enough but, when I finally put them together, a sense of dread immediately fell upon me. It couldn't be... No. No this was just a coïncidence. But still, I couldn't help but wonder, couldn't help but think that... One Saturday, when he left for his usual morning run, I took his phone. It was easy to get in, his password had always been the same : our first daughter's birthdate. Once it was unlocked, I didn't waste any time and quickly went through his messages, noting that he seemed to have a particularly active correspondance with *Sara*, the Spanish teacher at his school, which made me frown. Beyond that, there was no mentions of any of the other women. I opened Safari. As soon as I typed in the first name, Mary, Google gave me an answer. Mary Adams. I shuddered. It was just as I feared. Why would he look her up? Sure, they had been close in high school but why would he search for her right now? Didn't he know that she was-- Biting my lips, I typed in Janet. Janet Clearwater. My former best friend in college. I looked at her, at her smiling face and at her brown, messy curls and, for a second, my heart stung a bit. The day she died had been one of the most difficult of my life. Stabbed to death in a backstreet alley, after partying in a club. It always seemed wrong for her, but-- Claire Sanders. I barely remembered her but, when my eyes landed on her face, blurry, in the old newspaper article, I recognised her as one of his first colleagues. She had been very friendly, always taking us to places. Clark and her used to be so close... Alex. Alexandra Turner. This one, out of all of them, stung the most. She had killed herself three months prior, slitting her wrists in her bathtub, when her husband was away from home. She had been such a good family friend, a friend of Clark ever since he was a little kid... &#x200B; What were those four dead women doing in my husband's search history? Did he miss them? All of them at the same time? Did he feel bad about their death? Nostalgic maybe? On a whim, I looked up his search history. He had spent hours looking into the women's deaths, into the investigation about them, into conspiracy theories that contradicted the police's version of events. Alex' death was suspect apparently, people were theorizing that she had not killed herself, that someone had actually murdered her. I had no idea theories like that existed and the fact that Clark had read them, according to his history, made me wince. Why would he look at that? I was shaking by now, mostly from shock. Deep inside, I already knew the answer to my question and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. Clark couldn't have-- but if he hadn't, why where those names coming back now? Why had he looked for them? For the first time in my life, I started feeling afraid of my husband, of what he could do to me if he really had... No. No there was no way. It couldn't be that. It couldn't be. I had to focus, let it go. Clark was just feeling nostalgic about his old friends, trying to revive his memories, there was nothing suspicious about this. With a shaky smile, I put the phone back on the kitchen table and went to get a glass of water. I should focus on other things, things that mattered. Sara for example. From their texts, she seemed to be close to Clark. *Too close*. My grip tightened around the glass and, for a moment, I almost thought I was going to break it. Not wanting to deal with the cleaning up and the pain of an injured hand, I slowly relaxed my grip, breathing in and out deeply. Sara. That bitch. I had to deal with her, then I could speak to Clark. Figure out what was wrong with him. &#x200B; He was always easier to deal with when he was grieving.