Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“You did this after the second miscarriage, too,” Richard said, his voice dropping into that soft, clinical tone he used when he wanted to sound like a caretaker. “You started questioning the bank statements then. You accused the clinic of double-charging us for the ultrasound.”
I looked down at the granite countertop, wishing I could erase the memory of those empty rooms and the quiet drives home from the hospital in the Seattle fog.
“That was an administrative error,” I said. “They admitted it.”
“But your reaction was not normal, Laura,” he said, shifting his weight. “You spent three weeks locked in the study, tracking forty-five dollar transactions, convinced people were stealing from us. Now you are doing the exact same thing with a five million dollar trust.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face with a pale, blue glow.
“Let us call Monica,” Richard said. “She was with you through all of it. She knows how you get when the anxiety takes over.”
“Do not call her,” I said.
