Satisfied, he ran back outside.
I stayed where I was, gripping the note, staring out the window at Mike’s car sitting in the driveway.
Black sedan. Freshly washed. Parked exactly where he had left it.
Mike and I had been married for 12 years.
We didn’t keep secrets.
But someone clearly believed there was something I needed to find.
“This is stupid,” I muttered, mostly to break the silence pressing in around me.
Still, I grabbed my keys and walked outside.
I unlocked Mike’s car and began searching.
The center console held nothing unusual—receipts, sunglasses, a nearly empty pack of gum.
Then I opened the glove compartment.
The owner’s manual slid forward, along with insurance papers and registration documents.
I was just about to close it, feeling slightly ridiculous…
…when I noticed a neatly folded piece of paper tucked beneath the manual.
My fingers suddenly felt unsteady as I pulled it out.
MEET ME AT THE PARK. 10 A.M. DON’T TELL HER.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Don’t tell her.
Don’t tell me.
A secret meeting.
A time.
A place.
Heat crept up my neck.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”
There had to be an explanation.
There always was, right?
A surprise.
A misunderstanding.
