Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“I need to know whose name is on that account, James,” I said.
“We will find out,” James said.
“My father wanted this money to build parks, not to fund a betrayal,” I said, my hand instinctively twisting my gold wedding band around my finger.
Margret closed the leather-bound estate folder with a firm, decisive thud that echoed in the small office.
“We meet at the diner south of the city at eleven-thirty,” Margret said to James.
“I will be there,” James said.
He pocketed his notepad and walked out of the office, his heavy boots silent on the plush carpet.
I stood up, the leather-bound estate folder remaining on Margret’s desk.
“Thank you, Margret,” I said.
“Do not thank me yet, Laura,” Margret said.
The neon sign of the diner on Highway 99 flickered in the mid-morning fog, casting a pale green glow over the wet asphalt.
Inside, the air smelled of burnt espresso and fried onions, a sharp contrast to the clean cedar of Margret’s office.
James Rivera was already sitting in a corner booth, a white mug of black coffee in front of him.
