Sweet Red Lips in My Husband's Pocket

The photograph on Tom's phone screen burned itself into my retinas like a brand. Johnathan and Miranda, sitting across from each other at an intimate corner table, her hand covering his on the white tablecloth. His face was soft in the candlelight, wearing that same expression of genuine happiness I'd seen at the courthouse—the one that used to be mine.

"Anna? Anna, are you there?" Tom's voice crackled through the phone speaker, pulling me back from the edge of shock.

"I'm here," I whispered, my voice barely audible over Emma's babbling from her playpen. "Where... where is this?

"Marcello's, on Fifth Street. They've been here for about an hour." His voice was tight with anger. "Anna, I'm so sorry. I hoped I was wrong."

Marcello's. The Italian place where Johnathan had proposed to me four years ago, where we'd celebrated our first anniversary. The betrayal cut deeper than I'd thought possible—not just that he was with her, but that he'd taken her to our place.

"I have to go there," I said, already moving toward the closet to grab my jacket. "I have to see this for myself."

"Anna, wait—"

"No, Tom. I need to confront them. I need to look him in the eye and make him tell me the truth."

"Then I'll meet you there. Don't go in alone."

I was already sliding my arms into my coat, my hands shaking so badly I could barely work the buttons. "Okay. I'll wait for you in the parking lot."

"Give me ten minutes. I'm not far."

I hung up and called Mrs. Patterson from next door, my voice surprisingly steady as I asked if she could watch Emma for an hour. She agreed immediately, bless her, sensing the urgency in my tone without asking questions.

The drive to Marcello's passed in a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles went white, and I kept replaying the image from Tom's phone—the way Miranda had leaned forward, the intimate curve of Johnathan's smile, the casual way their fingers intertwined like they'd done it a thousand times before.

How long had this been going on? Weeks? Months? Had he been lying to my face every single day, coming home to me and Emma with her scent still on his clothes, her taste still on his lips?

I tried calling Tom as I turned onto Fifth Street, needing to coordinate our approach, but his phone went straight to voicemail.

"Tom, it's me. I'm almost there. Call me back."

I tried again at the next red light. Voicemail.

And again as I pulled into the shopping complex where Marcello's was located. Still nothing.

That was odd. Tom always answered his phone, especially when we were in the middle of something this important. Maybe his battery had died, or he was driving through a dead zone. But unease prickled at the back of my neck as I parked my car and looked toward the restaurant.

That's when I saw them.

Police cars. Three of them, their red and blue lights painting the evening in harsh, alternating colors. An ambulance sat nearby, its back doors open. A crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what was happening.

My blood turned to ice.

I stumbled out of my car, my legs unsteady, and pushed through the cluster of onlookers. A police officer was setting up yellow tape around the restaurant's entrance, his face grim.

"What happened?" I asked a woman standing near me, her face pale in the flashing lights.

"Someone died," she whispered, clutching her purse tighter. "In the bathroom. They found a body."

The world tilted sideways. I grabbed the nearest parking meter to steady myself, my vision swimming.

"Excuse me." I approached the officer with the tape, my voice coming out in a croak. "Officer, what happened here?"

He looked up, his expression professional but kind. "There's been an incident, ma'am. A young man was found deceased in the men's restroom. Appears to be a head injury."

A young man.

Head injury.

"What... what did he look like?" The question fell from my lips before I could stop it.

"Ma'am, I can't release details about the victim until family has been notified."

But I was already pushing past him, past the tape, ignoring his shouts for me to stop. I had to know. I had to see.

The restaurant's interior was chaos—overturned chairs, abandoned meals growing cold, the staff huddled together near the kitchen looking shell-shocked. EMTs were wheeling a gurney toward the front door, a white sheet covering the form strapped to it.

I caught a glimpse of dark hair sticking out from under the sheet. Hair the same color as mine. The same color as Dad's.

The same color as Tom's.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here!" A police officer grabbed my arm, trying to guide me back toward the entrance.

"That's my brother!" The words tore from my throat in a scream that didn't sound like my own voice. "That's my brother!"

I broke free and lunged toward the gurney, my hands reaching for the sheet. The EMT tried to stop me, but I was faster, desperate, pulling back the white fabric before anyone could intervene.

Tom's face stared back at me, pale and still. His dark eyes—so much like Dad's, so full of life and determination just hours ago—were closed forever. Blood had dried in his hair, and there was a terrible dent in his forehead where it had connected with something hard and unforgiving.

"No." The word came out as barely a whisper. "No, no, no, no, no."

I collapsed beside the gurney, my hands clutching at Tom's still-warm fingers. He'd been alive an hour ago. He'd been taking pictures, gathering evidence, trying to help me. And now he was gone.

"Ma'am, please step back." The officer's voice seemed to come from very far away. "We need to process the scene."

But I couldn't let go. Couldn't accept that my baby brother—the only person who had believed me, who had been willing to fight for me—was lying dead on a restaurant floor.

"What happened to him?" I demanded, looking up at the officer through my tears. "How did this happen?"

"We're still investigating, ma'am. It appears he slipped and hit his head on the sink. A tragic accident."

Accident.

The word echoed in my head as I stared at Tom's peaceful face. But something was wrong with that explanation. Tom was careful, athletic, sure-footed. He didn't just slip and fall.

And he'd been here taking pictures of Johnathan and Miranda.

Johnathan and Miranda, who were nowhere to be seen now.

As the EMTs gently pried my hands away from Tom's body and loaded him into the ambulance, one terrible thought crystallized in my mind with perfect, horrifying clarity.

This wasn't an accident.

This was murder.