I picked the ballroom, the live band, the three-tier cake.
I even had our initials embroidered onto the napkins.
Ten years with Eric.
Ten years.
That morning, I pressed his blue shirt myself—the one he always said was his favorite.
Natalie was my younger sister.
The baby I had once carried around the house.
The sister whose debts I paid before our parents ever found out about them.
She arrived in a red dress, wrapped her arms around me tightly, and whispered in my ear,
“I love you so much, sis.”
She smelled exactly like Eric’s cologne.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
But two months before, Eric had come home smelling exactly the same way, and when I asked, he claimed it was the new air freshener in his car.
I believed him.
Of course I did.
I did not hire the private investigator because of Natalie.
I hired him because of Eric.
First came the urgent Saturday meetings.
Then the “business trip” to Asheville.
