The man beside my SUV wore a gray hoodie and sunglasses, but I knew that walk. I’d watched it cross our kitchen for nineteen years. Desmond. My husband. He pulled our spare key from his pocket, slid into the driver’s seat, and calmly drove my SUV four rows over, parking it in the far corner by the garden center. Then he walked away, whistling.
“This is the fifth Saturday in a row,” the guard said quietly. “I noticed the pattern last week and started saving the footage.” He clicked to another clip. Desmond was sitting in his own car at the edge of the lot, watching me search with my grocery cart. He was filming me on his phone. And in the passenger seat beside him, smiling, sat a woman I had never seen before.
