I knew where she was going. Back to Humphrey.
I stared at the closed door and let a faint smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
"Goodbye, Ida."
Half an hour later, Humphrey Sawyer posted a social media story visible only to me.
"She said I'm the only one who cares about her. She told me to never leave her."
The photo showed the back of Ida's head buried in his chest, their fingers laced tightly together.
Just minutes ago, Ida had told me I could trust her.
But what she meant by "trust" was probably trusting that whatever she had with Humphrey was a pure "friendship."
Trusting that she'd skipped my follow-up appointments one after another for Wyatt Sawyer's trivial problems out of so-called "loyalty" to a good friend.
Trusting that two people could spend an entire night naked in the same bed and call it nothing more than "catching up."
Before long, Humphrey deleted the post, just like he had every other time.
As if what I'd seen was just a hallucination conjured by paranoia.
Then he sent me a message.
"Hey, brother-in-law, Ida was in a really bad mood tonight. She only came to have a few drinks with me. Don't overthink it."