Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
Richard checked his silver watch again, his thumb brushing the polished rim. He looked at me for three long seconds, as if he wanted to say something else, but Donald took his arm and pulled him toward the elevators.
I watched his back as the brass elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside, and then he was gone.
“Let us get you home,” Margret said, placing the papers into her leather-bound estate folder.
“I want to go alone,” I said.
I walked down the marble steps of the courthouse into the cold, gray noon. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and dark.
I pulled the Volvo into the driveway of the Queen Anne house at four in the afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting maple leaves.
A figure was standing near the garage door, wrapped in a heavy grey coat that did not quite close over her stomach. It was Monica.
She looked smaller than she had in Margret’s office three weeks ago. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, untidy knot, and she touched her collarbone as I opened the car door.
