“You’re late,” she said, in that playful, almost scolding tone. “I thought maybe your wife was keeping you busy.”
Then Frank’s chuckle.
“Don’t start, Clare. You know how careful we have to be. If your son ever finds out, we’re done.”
Silence.
Cold, brutal silence. The kind that echoes inside your head long after the words fade.
My son. Their son.
The pie slipped from my hand. It hit the ground with a soft, wet thud, apples and crust scattering over the driveway. I didn’t even flinch. All I could hear was the rushing in my ears, the sound of something collapsing inside me.
I took one step back, then another. My breath was shallow and uneven. My fingers trembled so badly I could barely reach for my car keys.
Inside, I heard movement—chairs scraping—more laughter. Frank’s voice again, warm, unguarded, a tone I hadn’t heard in years.
And then Clare said something I’ll never forget.
“She’ll never suspect,” she said. “She trusts both of us.”
Both of us.
I don’t remember driving home. I must have, because hours later I found myself sitting in my kitchen, the clock ticking, the smell of burnt coffee thick in the air.
I was still wearing my coat. The pie tin was gone. My hands were sticky with syrup. I stared at the wall, at the framed photos of our family—me, Frank, our son, and Clare.
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