Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
She stood up slowly, placing her brush across the top of her paint can. Her knees made a small cracking sound in the quiet room. She walked to the window, looking out at the bare branches of the maple tree in the yard.
“The house feels quiet,” she said, her voice softer now. “But it is a good quiet.”
“It is,” I said.
By one o’clock, the second coat of grey paint was dry. The room was transformed, the pastel colors gone, replaced by a deep, calm slate that made the white window frames stand out. We washed the brushes in the bathroom sink, watching the dark grey water swirl down the drain until it ran completely clear.
At two o’clock, the front door bell rang. I wiped my hands on a towel and walked downstairs to find Margret Chen standing on the porch. She was carrying her leather-bound estate folder under her arm, her sharp eyes scanning the quiet street before she stepped inside.
“The rain has stopped for now,” Margret said, shaking her umbrella before placing it in the stand.
“Come into the dining room,” I said.
