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TWENTY-FIVE

I STAGGER OUT OF the pub like a zombie, my chest burning, still stinging with disbelief as I read, for the tenth time, the text exchange I just had with David.

Me: Thinking of stopping by for quick lunch. Are you free?

David: We are crushed right now all hands on deck maybe later?

And yet David is not inside the pub. A flat-out, undeniable lie.

It’s not that simple, okay? he said to someone on the phone last night, whispering downstairs on the landline. And his explanation didn’t ring true.

I sit in my car, shaking, unable to bring myself to turn on the ignition. I pick up my phone and start typing a search: How to tell

The first prompt is: if your spouse is cheating

God, am I that much of a cliché? I put down the phone. No. I’m not going to be that woman. If I have a question, I’ll ask it, no matter how crushing the answer might be. This isn’t me, harboring doubts, afraid to speak my mind. I will just ask him.

Why, David? Why did you lie about being busy at work when you weren’t actually at work? Where were you?

Does this have something to do with all these things happening to our family?

Yes, I decide as I drive back to the office for my appointment. I will just ask him.

At the office, I meet with my client Diane Worley, who has just reviewed a draft of the appeal I will file in the case where the judge let her ex-husband off the hook for additional child support.

“This is so good, Marcie.” Diane sets down the document on my desk. “And you did it so fast.”

It took me more than six hours to get it into shape, but as always, I will cut my bill in half for a client like Diane, who can’t afford high legal fees. “It was fresh in my mind,” I say. “And the sooner we file, the sooner we overturn that ruling.”

“You think there’s a chance?”

“I do, yes. A decent chance. You never know with judges.”

I look around my office. Nothing fancy. Diplomas on the walls, family photos on my desk, a glamorous view of the parking lot through my window. But it’s mine. I may not enjoy matrimonial law as much as criminal defense, but at least I feel good about my clients now. And at least I call my own shots now.

I don’t know if the appellate court will overturn this decision. How teeth-gnashingly frustrating it must be for Diane, knowing that the fate of her and her children’s financial well-being rests in the hands of a selfish ex-husband, blessed by a trial judge. And her husband off with another life, a young trophy wife at his side.

“Diane, can I — oh, you know what? Never mind,” I say.

“What? You can ask me anything.”

“Well …” I drum my fingers on the desk. “How did you know? When did you first —”

“How did I know my husband was cheating on me?” She allows a bitter smile. “Oh, well — probably the first sign was that he was exercising more.”

Not an issue. David works out almost every day I’ve known him.

“Later on, I learned he’d opened a separate bank account and thrown some money in it and attached a debit card to it. He had the bills sent to work so I’d never see them.”

A separate bank account. Okay.

She leans forward. “But the real kicker for me was the burner phone.”

“A burner phone. A prepaid phone?”

It’s not that simple, okay?

Was David really talking on the landline when he whispered those words? Or did he have a second phone?

Diane nods. “When I caught him using another phone, I knew. Unless you’re a drug dealer or a terrorist, why else would you have a separate prepaid phone?”