Chapter 2: The Wrong Phone
She reached for my arm.
I stepped back.
"Don't."
My son was still ringing that bell.
Over and over.
Happy.
Completely unaware that his four words had just taken a wrecking ball to everything I thought I knew about my life.
"How long?" I asked.
She didn't answer fast enough.
"How long has this man been sleeping in my house?"
"It's not what you think—"
"You already said that." My voice came out flat.
"Try something else."
She started crying.
And I noticed something I couldn't unfeel — the tears came fast.
Too fast.
Like she'd cried in front of me before and knew exactly how long it took me to soften.
Not this time.
I walked to the kitchen.
I needed a wall between me and that room.
I needed to breathe.
That's when I saw it.
On the counter, half-hidden under a folded dish towel — a phone.
Not my wife's.
The case was dark blue.
A man's phone.
Screen cracked on the corner.
I picked it up.
It wasn't locked.
The last message on the screen was sent at 6:14 that morning.
*"Merry Christmas.
Tell him I picked the right bike."*
My hands stopped working.
He knew my son's gift.
May you like
He knew what I was giving my own child for Christmas.
And he was proud of it.
