Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
Outside, the rain was a steady, heavy curtain against the grease-filmed glass, blurring the neon sign of the motel across the highway.
James Rivera sat opposite me, his fingers tracing the edge of a thick blue paper folder that lay between our untouched mugs of black coffee.
He was forty-five, with a grey-streaked beard and a low, gravelly monotone that made every word sound like an official deposition.
“These were taken on the Tuesday before last,” James said, his hand sliding the first glossy photograph across the Formica table.
The image was sharp, despite the grey Seattle morning light filtering through the glass doors of the Virginia Mason clinic downtown.
Richard was holding the door open, his silver watch catching the light as he guided Monica inside by the elbow.
She was wearing her yellow rain jacket, the one she had bought for our trip to Orcas Island two summers ago.
My fingers tightened around my mug, the ceramic warm but unable to heat my hands.
“They were there for three hours,” James said, tapping his black ballpoint pen rhythmically against his notepad.
