Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
Inside was a receipt for an account I did not recognize, bearing a balance of twelve thousand dollars. The slip did not list an owner’s name, only a routing number and a transfer date from three days ago.
Beside the envelope lay a smaller slip from a boutique baby store in Bellevue for forty-five dollars. I folded both pieces of paper and slid them deep into my pocket before closing the drawer.
The question of whose name sat on that secondary account kept me awake until the sky turned grey.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I pulled up to Monica’s apartment building in Capitol Hill. The back seat of my car was loaded with two bags of organic groceries and a carton of the ginger tea she claimed was the only thing that helped her morning sickness.
She opened the door wearing a loose grey cardigan, her hand resting over her small bump.
“Laura, you did not have to do this,” she said, her voice trailing off into that soft, melodic lilt at the end of the sentence. She stepped back to let me in, her fingers instantly rising to touch her collarbone as she looked at the bags.
