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“Mom?” I said.
She spun around.
For a brief moment, something like pain crossed her face.
Then the anger returned.
“Sit down,” she said. “You need to know who he really is.”
My husband looked at me with wet eyes.
“Please,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
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My hands shook as I took the papers from my mother.
I flipped through them, my brain struggling to catch up.
They were printed emails. Old messages. A police report.
The date of the accident.
The route.
An address that wasn’t his grandparents’ house.
My stomach twisted.
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Jenna’s name.
I kept flipping through the pages, my mind trying to process it.
There were messages between him and Jenna from that day.
“Can’t stay long,” he’d written. “Got to get back before she suspects.”
“Drive safe,” she’d replied. “Love you.”
“Tell me she’s lying.”
My stomach twisted.
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“No,” I whispered.
My mom’s voice cut sharp through the room.
“He wasn’t driving to his grandparents that night,” she said. “He was driving home from his mistress.”
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