“What did he look like?”
Her description made my blood run cold.
Tall, gray at the temples, wearing a navy jacket and wedding ring, with a small scar near his left eyebrow.
My husband, David.
I drove home with Emma’s cake secured in my SUV, wondering why David had visited the bakery with another woman.
That evening, after we loaded the wedding decorations into our cars, I confronted him in the kitchen.
I placed the number on the counter.
“Do you recognize this?”
“No.”
“Someone used it when she called Emma’s bakery pretending to be Emma.”
He frowned.
“And apparently,” I continued, “you were there with her a few weeks ago.”
David froze.
“Laura, tomorrow is our daughter’s wedding. Please don’t do this tonight.”
“So you do know her.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He glanced nervously toward the hallway.
