MARK’S SECOND PHONE FELL OUT FROM UNDER THE LIVING ROOM COUCH
Reaching under the dusty couch searching for the dropped remote, my hand froze on unfamiliar glass. I pulled it out, dust motes dancing wildly in the lamp’s harsh glare, revealing a cheap, black plastic phone, heavy in my hand, screen face down. My heart hammered instantly against my ribs; this wasn’t his work phone or his personal one.
Mark walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a patterned tea towel. His eyes landed on the dark rectangle in my hand, and the air in the room felt thick and stifling, hotter than before. “What in the hell is that you’ve got there?” he asked, voice unnervingly casual.
“Don’t play dumb, Mark, not tonight,” I said, voice shaking as I turned the screen up, afraid to press it. A text notification glowed under a name I didn’t recognize, starting with S. “Who is this ‘Sarah S.’ texting you explicit messages at quarter past midnight?” His face went slack, draining color under the harsh overhead light, eyes darting away.
He didn’t answer, just stared at the screen, mouth slightly open. I saw the text preview: ‘Can’t wait until tomorrow. He’ll never know we were here together.’ That line, coupled with his silence and averted gaze, hit me with a sickening wave of understanding, a physical blow to the stomach. The betrayal wasn’t just a possibility; it was a cold, hard fact.
Then the screen lit up fully, and the lock screen picture wasn’t Sarah, it was my sister smiling back.
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