“It was no problem,” said Conner. “My wife was taking a nap this afternoon so it wasn’t a big deal.” He looked at his watch. “It’s three o’clock. Guess I’d better head home.”

In another Uber going uptown, Conner engaged in a lengthy conversation with the driver. Exiting the vehicle on West 96th Street, he waved as the car pulled away and continued on to his neighborhood market.

Chatting with the man behind the deli counter, he traded jokes as he ordered some sliced turkey. He asked a stock boy about the location of Dijon mustard and queried the woman behind the Plexiglass making sushi on how she made them look so pretty. He finished off his shopping trip by conversing with an older female cashier.

“I bought more than I planned,” said Conner as the grocery bags were filled. “Hope I can get home with all this stuff. My wife’s not feeling well and I’m in charge of dinner.”

“Aren’t you a peach,” said the older cashier. “The last time my husband made dinner, Reagan was in the White House. Your wife is a lucky woman.”

Zoe moved around her bedroom trying to fight off sleep but her legs were heavy as if she was walking through thick syrup. Stumbling into her bathroom, she turned on the cold water and splashed some on her face in an attempt to stay awake. Her brain wasn’t working properly, partly from the cryptic nature of the information she had found on her husband’s phone but also from the pill and booze.

She grabbed the sides of the sink and stood up straight looking at her reflection in the mirror. What did all those texts mean? Who was Conner talking to? Is he having an affair? I’ve got to stay awake. She blinked several times and opened the medicine cabinet to get some eyedrops. Reaching for the drops, she knocked her brand-new bottle of Ambien into the sink. The cap was slightly askew which caught her attention. Picking up the plastic container she shook it. It was empty. She squinted as she checked the date on the label to be sure it was the same prescription bottle she had picked up earlier that week. It was. Where are all my pills?

Deep in her drug-addled brain the neurons somehow still fired and ushered in a brief moment of clarity. She wobbled back into the bedroom, picked up her bourbon glass from the nightstand and examined it. That’s when she saw little white particles settled at the bottom of the glass. What is that? Is that my Ambien? Did Conner put Ambien in my bourbon? Shit. On the verge of passing out, she grabbed Conner’s secret Android phone and slipped it into the pocket of the yoga pants she was wearing, zipping it shut.