But then why would she call pretending to be Emma? Why would she tell them not to give the cake to Laura?
To me.
I’d been married to David for thirty-one years. He’s a structural engineer. He’s steady. Quiet. The kind of man who checks the tire pressure before every road trip and still writes me a card on our anniversary. I’ve never once in thirty-one years had a reason to wonder.
But lately, now that I thought about it, he’d been on his phone more. Stepping out onto the back porch to take calls. Saying “work stuff” when I asked.
Twice in the last month, he’d come home late on a Saturday and said he’d been at the hardware store. For three hours.
I’d believed him.
I parked in the garage. I got the cake into the downstairs refrigerator, the big one we bought for exactly this weekend. I stood in front of the open refrigerator door looking at those sugar flowers for a long time.
