“Boston,” I repeated, forcing a smile. “The same client?”
“Yes,” he said, without even blinking. “I’ll text you the flight information.”
A man folding clothes | Source: Pexels
A man folding clothes | Source: Pexels
I nodded, and then I watched him go brush his teeth as if nothing had happened. I stayed silent, but inside something had already broken.
When he fell asleep, I looked in his briefcase and found a ticket to Boston. Then I opened our shared calendar. Sure enough, there it was: a flight to Boston, Thursday morning, at 9 a.m.
I stared at him for a long time.
Then I booked a ticket on the same flight using my own credit card.
A woman with a bank card and a laptop | Source: Pexels
A woman with a bank card and a laptop | Source: Pexels
I called and arranged things with the nanny, telling her I had to take care of a family matter and would be back in a couple of days. I didn’t tell anyone else, not even my mother. I didn’t want to hear any reassuring words.
If Sarah was right, if she hadn’t traveled for work at all, she needed proof.
I needed to see the truth with my own eyes.
A woman with a bag in her hand leaving | Source: Pexels
A woman with a bag in her hand leaving | Source: Pexels
When we landed in Boston on Thursday, I saw him call a taxi. I had rented a car, which I used to keep my distance as I followed him. I was shaking so much that I had to pull over twice just to catch my breath.
I expected it to go to a hotel or an office building, but the taxi kept going, winding its way into the suburbs, past playgrounds and neat lawns. It passed busy streets and entered a quiet residential neighborhood with leafy trees and rows of welcoming houses.
