My pulse barely changed when I saw the pending transactions from Playa Sol.
Thousands of dollars were disappearing from my accounts, paying for my husband’s luxury vacation with the woman I had once trusted more than anyone else in the world.
Trina.
Twenty-two years.
She’d held my hand through my mother’s fun*ral, and my hysterectomy, and the year Glenn “took a break,” and she had a key to my house, which is the part that I would think about most in the weeks that followed.
I did not panic.
Instead, my heartbeat settled into a slow, controlled rhythm.
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