ep when I got up. I made coffee, my mi

ded t

g out. His phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up, my fingers surprisingl

th "My Little Muse." Her contact photo was a selfie, pouti

ojis, inside jokes I didn't understand, plans to meet. "Can't wai

Sophia M." Small amounts, mostly. $27.77. Again and again. Wha

yments for "art supplie

d her. Of course, he did. I logged into his Instagram on his phone. Her feed was a curated coll

ry specific guitar pick. It was a custom pick I'd given Ethan for his birthday two years ag

That pick was usua

her shoulder. Only his arm was visible, but the watch on his wrist was unmistakab

a fling. This was a pattern. A betrayal