The Vera voice in her head, it vanished then, expelled by Odilie’s wrath toward her husband. She wasn’t angry about the cheating, the affair. No. Tom had taken something that was so rightfully Odilie’s, so cherished, a friend however imaginary. He had tainted the only embodiment of perfection Odilie had in her otherwise discordant, unhappy life. He had soiled something precious.

At first, she thought he was lying, trying to get a rise out of her. After he’d gone to bed, on the couch, she’d taken his phone, looked at his text messages. She read through their conversation, noted that Tom had been lying about one thing: Vera had dumped him that day. Odilie called the number, to eliminate any doubt that this was Vera, that Tom hadn’t just saved his side piece’s number under her name to fuck with Odilie. She prayed that no one would pick up and no one did. And then there was the click of a voice mail, Vera, her voice lower and huskier than Odilie had imagined, saying her own name, that she wasn’t there at the moment and whoever was calling should text her.

Odilie had an idea.

She took Tom’s phone into bed with her. He wouldn’t wake up; she’d seen him swallow an Ambien before he went to sleep on the couch. Under her covers, her face peeking out of her blanket, she called Vera’s number a few more times. No answer. She texted Vera a few more times, long, drawn-out, painful essays about how much Tom liked her, that she had to give him a second chance. The more she sent, the more deranged they got. That he was in love with her. That he didn’t know how he could live without her. After about two hours of this, Vera had blocked her, or Tom—she could tell from the messages, which went from blue to green on iMessage and Odilie deleted the entire conversation, slipped back downstairs and tucked the phone next to Tom, right in the place where he’d left it, his little teddy bear.