Once we were home, I locked myself in the bathroom, claiming a migraine.
The door clicked shut, and only then did I let my breath shake. My heart was racing. I needed silence. I needed clarity.
My phone felt unsteady in my hands as I scrolled back through Eric’s messages. Voice notes. Photos. A picture he’d sent just the night before—an upscale hotel room, a city skyline glowing beyond the window, a receipt from a steakhouse in downtown Chicago. The timestamps aligned perfectly.
Except he hadn’t been in Chicago.
He’d been here.
