During that year abroad, I'd video-called Cynthia almost every night. In the beginning, she'd pick up, smiling, warm. Then the calls grew shorter. Her tone turned impatient. Eventually, she stopped answering altogether.
I told myself it was the distance. That was all.
But sometimes, before she hung up—or before she declined the call—I'd catch a man's voice in the background. While she was out shopping. While she was getting out of the shower. While she was lying in bed.
When I asked, the answers came quick and easy. A friend's husband. My girlfriend's boyfriend. Just someone nearby.
I trusted her. I didn't let myself think the worst.
Now, standing here, Adam Henson's voice merged with every one of those phantom voices, and the picture finally clicked into place. Cynthia had been lying to me the entire time.
I ignored Walter's taunts. My gaze dropped to Cynthia's belly.
"How far along?" My voice was level. Quiet.
Cynthia pressed her lips together and looked away, unable to meet my eyes.
It was Adam who answered, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "It's not your kid. Why do you care?"
He paused, savoring the moment. "But sure, I'll tell you. Eight months."