“Give me your phone,” I said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The answer came without a beat of hesitation.
“Why not?”
“Because this is ridiculous.”
“Someone covered your car in women’s underwear and sent me a video of you meeting a woman you’ve never once mentioned.”
“I explained her.”
“You gave me a first name after I asked twice.”
He shook his head. “I’m not handing over my phone because some lunatic is trying to create problems between us.”
“Then unlock it yourself.”
“No.”
I picked his phone up from the counter and entered the six-digit code I had known for years.
It didn’t work.
“When did you change your passcode?”
“A while ago.”
“Why?”
“Security.”
My phone buzzed again.
If he tells you it’s only Olivia, ask him about Thursdays.
The cold that moved through me was slow and thorough.
For months, Marcus had been coming home late on Thursdays. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock. A standing project review, he’d told me. Long meetings. I had never questioned it. You don’t, when you trust someone. Or rather — you don’t, when you think trust means not needing to look too closely.
