Derek Hart—Rebecca’s husband—stood in my foyer, face pale, eyes wild. He’d rushed over when he heard about an “emergency.” He looked like a man expecting fire and finding betrayal instead.
When he realized what he was seeing, his expression shattered. Rage. Devastation. A grief so sharp it almost made me feel guilty.
Almost.
The ambulance doors closed, and the sirens carried my husband and my former best friend away together, still connected by the consequences of their choices.
The fire captain approached me before leaving. “Ma’am,” he said, voice tired, “there will be a report. This is… unusual.”
“I understand,” I replied sweetly. “My husband’s infidelity has led to unusual circumstances.”
He nodded slowly, understanding passing between us.
“The police may have questions,” he added.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m happy to cooperate. I was at work when this accident occurred.”
When everyone finally left—firefighters, paramedics, neighbors—my house was quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own breathing.
I stood in my empty hallway and let myself smile.
Not with joy.
With a grim, exhausted satisfaction.