Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
I reached into my purse and pulled out a small, wrinkled piece of paper, placing it on top of the photographs. It was the forty-five dollar receipt for the high-end designer diaper bag I had found in Monica’s closet.
“This was bought on our joint Visa card,” I said, my voice steady. “The same card Richard used to authorize the delivery of five thousand dollars’ worth of nursery furniture to your apartment.”
“You went through my trash,” Richard said, his eyes narrowing as he glared at me.
“I did,” I said. “And I found the delivery confirmation slip you signed using my name.”
Margret slid another document across the table, this one bearing the letterhead of the grief counselor Richard had insisted I see after my third miscarriage.
“This is the intake form from your clinic, Laura,” Margret said. “And these are the email attachments Richard sent to the therapist over a twelve-month period.”
I picked up the emails, reading the words Richard had written to a professional who was supposed to help me heal. He had documented my grief, calling me paranoid, unstable, and incapable of managing my own affairs.
