If you loved your son, Connor, you wouldn't begrudge his family a modest meal.
I stood there for a long moment, the cool night air biting at my skin. The silence from Mark and Teresa was deafening. Amy still didn’t look at me.
I looked at Frederick, nestled in his car seat, his breathing shallow but steady. He needed a warm bed, a quiet place to heal. This porch, this confrontation, was not it.
“Fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Fine.”
I turned, walked back to my truck, and carefully strapped Frederick into the back. Amy watched me, her expression unreadable in the dim light. I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway without a single backward glance.
The truck felt like a coffin. I couldn’t go back to the clinic; Frederick was discharged. I couldn’t impose on Chloe; she had an early flight for a work audit. My options were zero.
I drove aimlessly for a while, the hum of the engine a dull drone. Frederick was still asleep. I needed to figure out a next step, but my mind was a jumble of anger, confusion, and a bone-deep weariness.
Eventually, the glowing sign of a 24-hour diner caught my eye. “Eddie’s Diner,” it read, the letters flickering. It wasn’t much, but it was light, and it was warm. I pulled into the empty parking lot.
I adjusted Frederick’s car seat so he was comfortable, then reclined my own seat as far back as it would go. The exhaustion was a physical weight. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
At 1:15 AM, my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. Frederick was still sleeping soundly. I decided to grab a coffee and a sandwich, something to steady my nerves.
As I pushed open the diner door, the warm, greasy smell of frying onions and stale coffee hit me. The place was almost empty, save for a lone figure sipping coffee at the counter.
He looked up as I entered. It was Julian Brooks. A local mobile notary and handyman I’d hired once or twice for small jobs around the house. A friendly, chatty guy.
“Connor! What are you doing out so late?” Julian asked, a surprised smile on his face.
I managed a tight smile. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“Same here,” he chuckled, patting the stool beside him. “Just getting a late-night pick-me-up. Had a busy week with all these new property filings.”
I ordered a coffee and a club sandwich. We made small talk about the weather, local sports. Then, Julian leaned in conspiratorially.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping, “I felt really sorry for your wife, Amy, a few weeks ago.”
My blood ran cold. “Why?”
Julian took a sip of his coffee. “Well, she asked me to keep it private, but you’re her husband, so… I notarized some paperwork for her. A residential property quitclaim document. Said it was for an amicable split, you two going separate ways.”
He paused, oblivious to the shock twisting my gut. “Did it right there, at Teresa Gable’s kitchen table. Three weeks ago, almost to the day. Said you were fine with it, just wanted to keep it low-key.”
A residential property quitclaim document. My home. Amy’s signature. Three weeks ago. At Teresa’s kitchen table.
The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying, sickening thud. The missing money. The locked doors. Teresa’s smugness. Mark’s aggression. Amy’s silence.
It wasn’t just Teresa. Amy was involved. She had been for weeks.
Julian, still oblivious, took another sip of coffee. “Nice lady, Teresa. Very hospitable.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. My club sandwich sat untouched. The coffee tasted like ash. My wife, the woman I had devoted my life to protecting, had been selling our home behind my back, using my neighbor as a go-between.
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