The phone slipped in my damp hand when I reached for it, and I nearly dropped that too.
I called Cassie Morgan.
Cassie and I had been friends since junior high, though in truth “friends” was a polite simplification. Cassie was the sort of woman life forged instead of raised. She had started bartending at nineteen, bought a duplex by twenty-seven, divorced a man who thought apologies were a substitute for change, and now ran the busiest wine bar in town with the kind of competence that made men call her intimidating when what they meant was not available to manipulate. She had met Brett twice and disliked him both times.
She answered on the second ring sounding half asleep. “Val? It’s ten-thirty. What happened?”
“You were right,” I said.
Her silence sharpened instantly. “About what?”
“About Brett.” My voice sounded detached, almost clear. “About all of them.”
I heard sheets rustling, then her feet hitting the floor. “Tell me right now.”
So I did. Not elegantly. I told her in fragments. Airport. Hawaii. Tiffany. Group chat. House. Baby.
When I finished, Cassie said one sentence in a voice so flat it frightened me.
“Lock the doors. I’m coming.”