Above me, they started moving around the room.
Drawers opened. Suitcases zipped. Papers rustled.
“Check the blue folder,” my husband said casually, like he was looking for car keys instead of evidence of a crime. “She keeps important things there.”
My maid of honor laughed softly.
“I still can’t believe she trusted us this much.”
Every word felt like a knife.
This was Lena. My best friend since we were eleven. The girl who held my hand when my father died. The one who helped me choose my wedding dress.
And now she was standing two feet above me, helping my husband ruin my life.
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