She stopped in front of a two-story house with a white porch and a garden full of roses. I parked a few houses down, my stomach twisting as I watched her step out of the car — heels clicking, purse in hand, a faint smile on her face.
A man opened the front door. Tall, neatly dressed, maybe mid-thirties. He greeted her with a hug.
I sat there for what felt like hours, watching from the shadows as they disappeared inside. When she finally left around midnight.
I didn’t confront her that night. I couldn’t. Instead, I lay awake beside her, listening to her breathe, wondering how long this lie had lived in my home.
—
The next morning, I woke up determined to get answers.
Over breakfast, I said casually, “So, how was your client dinner?”
She didn’t even flinch. “It went well. Long night, though. I’m exhausted.”
“Where was it held?” I asked.
“Oh, at The Oak Room downtown.”
