Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “The top shelf is empty.”
I walked down her narrow hallway toward the pantry cupboard, which stood right beside her bedroom closet. The closet door was ajar, revealing a row of winter coats and a small shelf of storage boxes.
Resting on top of the lowest box was a cream-colored leather diaper bag with gold hardware. The designer logo was stamped clearly across the front pocket, matching the name of the boutique from the forty-five dollar receipt currently tucked inside my purse.
My hand went to my pocket, my fingers pressing against the sharp edges of the folded paper.
“Is the water boiling yet?” Monica called out from the kitchen.
“Almost,” I said, closing the closet door until it clicked shut.
The slip of paper was small, but it felt heavy enough to sink a ship.
The soup at the Lake Union Cafe arrived lukewarm, but neither of us sent it back.
Monica adjusted her knit cardigan, her fingers hovering near her collarbone as she spoke about nursery color swatches. Under the edge of the linen tablecloth, my thumb found the record button on my phone.
