“Leo,” I said softly. “How many times has the lady come over?”
He counted on his fingers, lost track, then began again.
“A lot. But only when you’re at work. And she brings the tall bag.”
“What tall bag?”
“With the sticks in it.”
Sticks.
Paintbrushes, perhaps.
Or something else.
My mind refused to settle on any harmless explanation.
I pushed the cart toward the exit.
Then I stopped.
My feet simply refused to move.
I could walk away.
I could buckle Leo into the car, drive home, and pretend I had never heard any of it.
I could confront Mark that evening in our kitchen, where the lighting was soft and I felt steady.
Or I could turn around now, ten feet away from a stranger who might already know more about my marriage than I did, and demand the truth from her.
“Mommy?”
“One second, sweetheart.”
I closed my eyes.
