He froze when he saw the suitcases.
“Emily… what is this?”
I didn’t answer. I walked to the kitchen table, picked up the folder I had prepared — copies of the receipts, photos from the investigator — and threw them at his feet.
“Don’t lie to me,” I said. My voice sounded strange. Calm. Controlled. “Just go.”
He stared down at the papers. His face drained of color.
Then, to my shock, he began to cry.
Not angry tears. Not defensive. Just broken.
“Please,” he said hoarsely. “Before you decide anything… call the number on the receipts.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You think I’m going to call your mistress?”
“Yes,” he said. “Please.”
Against every instinct, I picked up my phone. My hands were trembling so badly I had to steady them against the counter. I dialed the number printed at the top of the receipt.
It rang twice.
“Elm Street Hospice Suites,” a woman answered softly. “This is Carol speaking.”
Hospice.
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