PART ONE: THE MAN HE CALLED BORING kara
The voice note kept ringing as I entered the kitchen.
“Babe, you left your sports bra in my locker. Tell your sad husband that she works late tomorrow. We have to go over your ground game.”
A strong laugh followed.
I stood there with one hand at the kitchen counter and listened to it twice.
Not because I didn't understand what I'd heard.
Because after fourteen years of marriage, I couldn't understand how easy my kara wife had said.
My wife, Claire.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen Christmases.
Two houses.
A mortgage.
Hundreds of dinners where we sit opposite each other and don’t talk about anything kara.
And now there was a twenty-eight-year-old chafer kickboxing instructor calling my wife “babe” while telling her to lie to me.
I looked at the phone.
Then on the stairs.
Claire appeared a minute later in her robe.
