Stephen
Laura was hiding something.
I knew it the second I walked into the penthouse and found her sitting at the kitchen island eating pickles straight from the jar.
I stopped.
She looked at me.
I looked at the jar.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face asked why my wife is eating pickles at five-thirty in the afternoon.”
“Because they’re good.”
“You hate pickles.”
“I do not hate pickles.”
“You removed them from a hamburger last week and told me they contaminated the bun.”
She slowly lowered the pickle.
That was when I knew.
Or at least when the possibility hit me hard enough that I forgot about the briefcase in my hand.
Laura had gone to the doctor that morning because she was worried. She hadn’t said much before the appointment,
