Her eyes widened.
“Just don’t do anything embarrassing, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, I’m forty years old. Embarrassing you is practically my job.”
“Just don’t do anything embarrassing.”
She rolled her eyes.
I smiled, but inside, I was terrified of what I might discover.
That evening, I put on comfortable pants and a loose sweater, grabbed my purse, and kissed Hannah goodbye.
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“Have fun at your meeting, honey,” Wesley called from the kitchen.
“Thanks, sweetheart!”
I felt a little guilty lying to him. Then I remembered the unfamiliar earring and my missing shoes.
I felt ridiculous.
I drove to the neighboring block and parked where I could see the road leading to our driveway.
Sitting there, spying on my own husband, I felt ridiculous. Fifteen years of marriage, and I’d apparently become a private detective with a bad hip.
About twenty minutes later, a car pulled up outside our house.
