Alice had been wearing my clothes in my bedroom while I was at work, and my son had been counting to fifty in the hallway. And the question haunting me wasn’t just what Alice was doing in there.
It was whether she was doing it alone.
That night, after Mason was asleep, I called my best friend while pacing the kitchen, lights dim, voice low.
“Sheryl,” she said slowly over the phone when I finally stopped, “what if it’s not just Alice?”
“Don’t,” I said sharply, pressing my palm against the counter.
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