Silence for a heartbeat, then the lock clicked open.
I took the stairs two at a time, not giving myself any time to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking meant processing, and if I started processing, I'd fall apart right here in this stairwell that smelled like old carpet and someone's cooking.
Angela was waiting at her door when I reached the third floor. She'd thrown on a cardigan over her work clothes, barefoot, hair pulled into a messy bun. She looked tired, small. Nothing like the woman who'd wrapped her legs around my husband four nights ago.
"Hey," she said, forcing something that might have been a smile. "Everything okay? You sounded?—"
"Is Bryan home?"
The question came out sharper than I'd intended. Angela blinked.
"What? No. He's in Denver for that conference. Gets back tomorrow. Why?"
"Can I come in?"
She hesitated, just for a second. Then stepped back and held the door open.
"Yeah. Of course."
I walked past her into the living room, the same room where we’d hosted book club last month. I could still picture myself on that couch, wine in hand, laughing about the male lead’s ‘throbbing manhood.’ Angela had rolled her eyes, said she was done with purple prose. I’d agreed, we all had. Back when everything still felt normal.
Now the throw blanket was bunched at one end of the couch, and a wine glass sat on the coffee table with a red lipstick stain on the rim. Angela’s red. The same shade that had probably been on Matt’s mouth four nights ago.
"Do you want something to drink?" Angela was hovering by the door, arms crossed. "Tea? I think I have?—"
"How long?"
She paused. "What?"
I turned to face her. Looked at her properly for the first time since I'd walked in.
She'd lost weight. I hadn't noticed before, but now I could see it in her collarbones, sharper than they'd been a few months ago. Her cardigan hung loose on her frame. Her lips—God, her lips—were chapped, the lipstick worn off at the center where she'd been biting them. Those lips that had been on his neck.
My stomach turned.
"How long have you been fucking my husband?"
The color drained from her face. "What? I… what are you talking about? I would never?—"
"Don't."
The word came out flat. I watched her mouth open and close, watched her try to find the lie, only to realize there wasn't one that would work.
"I saw the videos," I said. "From the clinic. So don't stand there and lie to my face."
Her hand came up to her throat, that nervous gesture I'd seen a thousand times. Usually when a client was upset about a diagnosis, when she had to deliver bad news and didn't want to.
Now she was the bad news.
"Oh God," she whispered. "Oh God, I?—"
She'd forgotten. I could see it in her face, the exact moment the realization hit. The cameras, the new security system I'd handled because she couldn't be bothered with the insurance compliance paperwork.
"How long?"
Angela's eyes filled with tears. Her hand was still at her throat, fingers pressing into the hollow there like she was trying to hold herself together.
"Just… not long. I didn’t mean to?—"
