He sneered, glancing at Olivia.
I was confused—
Until Olivia, catching on, pulled several photos from her designer handbag.
I took them.
They showed me, over several Memorial Days, dressed plainly, wearing large sunglasses.
Some shots were at the airport, some at a highway entrance, some near the cemetery.
And in each one, I was seen quietly speaking to—or getting into cars with—different men, also in sunglasses, with distinct builds and temperaments.
The photos were shot at tricky angles, making everything seem secretive, even shady.
“What’s the matter? Speechless? Feeling guilty?”
“Every year on that day, you sneak off to meet these men, hiding yourself like that. What shady business are you doing?”
“Tell me! Who are they? Where are they from?”
I had promised my cousins.
Their identities were far too sensitive to be exposed.
Even our yearly gatherings were absolute secrets.
“You can’t ask. I won’t tell you who they are.”
“Michael, just believe me—it’s not what you think. And besides…”
“Knowing who they are won’t do you any good. You can’t afford to offend them.”
I wasn’t trying to boast.
We were husband and wife—I only hoped he’d back off.