That night, while Derek slept, snoring softly under a film of sweat, I sat cross-legged on the nursery floor with one twin curled into my shoulder and the other dozing in the crib. The room smelled like baby lotion and fabric softener, warm, soft things that didn’t deserve the shadow creeping in.
I didn’t want to be the woman who checked her husband’s phone. But I didn’t want to be the fool, either.
But my instincts didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.
When the twins finally drifted into that deep, syncopated sleep, I walked into the guest room, lifted Derek’s phone, and sat in the laundry room with the door closed behind me.
I opened Photos. Then Hidden albums.
The first image nearly sent the phone flying from my hands: Derek, white robe, a glass of champagne, and a stupid grin on his face.
The next hit harder: Kelsey, in an identical robe, her hand resting on his chest.
And another: my husband’s mouth on my stepsister’s neck.
… her hand resting on his chest.
I stared until I couldn’t breathe.
