“Here?”
“A few weeks ago. She came in with a man.”
“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.”
