Her stomach dropped. Elena. Six p.m. Bloomingdale Avenue. Those were the nights he said he was running errands. He’d never once mentioned that name. Not in passing. Not in context. Not at all. Her pulse picked up. The smell on his shirt. The lies. This wasn’t neutral anymore.
Julia stared at the screen, blinking hard, trying to push down the nausea rising in her throat. Her hands were suddenly cold. She’d been doubting herself for weeks—questioning every hunch, every instinct. But now, there it was.