At 8:30, the door opened. Connor stepped in casually, keys jangling in his hand. “Jules?” he called. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She didn’t respond. Not right away. She rose from the couch slowly, the quiet almost heavier than words. “Where were you tonight, Connor?”
He blinked, thrown by her tone. “A meeting. I told you I had a client thing.” His voice was easy, almost automatic. That broke something in her. “No, Connor,” she said. “Not a meeting. You were at a café on Bloomingdale Avenue. With Elena.” Her voice cracked, but her eyes didn’t.