Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
The signature on the line was a quick, jagged scrawl that I had seen on a thousand tax returns and mortgage documents.
It was Richard’s signature.
I stared at the ink, the paper crisp and cold between my fingertips.
The delivery address was not our house on Queen Anne, but Monica’s apartment in the city.
He had bought the furniture yesterday, using my money, while he was telling me how much he wanted to save our marriage.
I carefully folded the slip and tucked it deep into my pocket, next to my gold wedding band.
From the hallway, I heard the soft click of Richard’s office door opening.
“Laura?” his voice called out, warm and empty. “Are you coming up soon?”
I turned off the kitchen light, the darkness swallowing the room.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady in the quiet house. “I will be right there.”
I walked toward the stairs, the gold necklace felt like a cold collar around my throat.
The vinyl booth in the diner south of Tukwila smelled of old grease and burnt coffee.
