Back in my car, I sat with both hands gripping the steering wheel, not because I was about to drive, but because my body needed an object to contain itself. Through the windshield I could see the top of Karen’s immaculate hydrangeas nodding in the breeze. A child’s scooter lay on its side near the garage. Somewhere in the house, a dog barked twice. It all looked so normal. That was the terrible part. Betrayal almost always happens in places where life has become comfortable enough to hide it.
I do not know how long I sat there before my phone rang. Unknown number. I nearly ignored it. If it had been a telemarketer and I had picked up, I think I might have screamed. Instead I answered and heard a man introduce himself in a careful professional tone.
“Mrs. Morrison? This is Frederick Peton, senior vice president of private wealth management at First National Bank. We’ve been trying to reach you regarding unusual activity on your accounts.”
Something in his voice told me immediately that the story inside the story was worse. Or perhaps, given the rest of that day, better in the sense that it made the truth clearer.
“What unusual activity?”