Shelley and I end up staying out very late. After coffee, we go to a restaurant to grab dinner. And after that, we go to a bar and have a few drinks. Well, more than a few, if I’m being honest. I keep telling myself that I need to stop, that it’s more important now than ever to have a clear head, but alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain of Sam’s betrayal. By the time I stumble home, it’s after midnight and all the lights are out in the apartment.

I creep into the dark bedroom, swearing softly as I trip over one of Sam’s shoes that he left lying in the middle of the room. He’s always leaving his shoes in a place where I can easily trip on them—it used to drive me crazy. How hard is it to throw your shoes in the closet, for God’s sake?

I remember when that used to be the worst of our problems.

Sam is passed out in bed. He’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, and has thrown the covers mostly off him in his sleep. That’s another thing he always does. He starts out with two covers neatly covering him, then within an hour, ends up coverless.

His glasses are on the nightstand next to the bed, and he’s breathing deeply in an almost-snore. He’s got that five o’clock shadow, and as I look down at his features, it’s hard to blame Monica for falling for him. I couldn’t resist him either when we first met. I still can’t. Even now that I know the truth.

My eyes fall on his cell phone, which is plugged in on the nightstand. He told me his phone password and I don’t think he’s changed it. Presumably, I should be able to get into his phone. And then I’ll see what he’s been talking about with Monica all this time. I know I said I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but that was before there were murder charges involved.

I have to know the truth.

I snatch the phone from the table before I can change my mind. I punch in the six numbers that make up Sam’s code, and to my surprise, the phone unlocks.

I quickly click on the icon for text messages. Monica’s name is right at the top—he’s made no effort to hide it. I click on their texting thread, reading the last few lines of their back-and-worth.

Sam: I really don’t know what to do about Abby. This is bad.

Monica: I know.

Sam: She wouldn’t come home tonight. So that plan is off.

Plan? What plan? What had he been planning if I had shown up tonight like I was supposed to? Did it involve duct tape?

“What are you doing?”