ended with “Goodnight.” He said, “Claire.” I hung up anyway.
Downstairs, I examined the card again, this time studying Daniel’s signature instead of Laura’s name. The printed message had been entered and approved on a website, followed by a delivery address—probably an old one saved under his account. Perhaps he’d ordered for me years ago. One wrong selection exposed six months of deliberate concealment. Whether he’d placed the order at work, beside me on the sofa, or in our bed would remain unknown.
At two, I checked our joint credit-card
