1. Delilah #3
I’d turn on the overhead. With my phone dangled in front of his eyes, I’d say, Explain this.
And then what?
He’d sit up. Squint. He’s always been a devoted poker player, so his face wouldn’t give anything away.
He’d just say, Delilah, are you saying that’s me? Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? That could be anybody.
You’ve been up for twenty-four hours. Look at yourself, you’re not even making sense.
In some ways, my brain would start to side with him. I mean, technically, his face isn’t even in it. Just a back with a mole beneath the left shoulder blade, and an arm, and a headboard that could really be anyone’s.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not.
Then, as soon as I conceded the point and slunk away to shower off the bakery smells, he’d be texting her. Cover your tracks. She’s onto us.
By the time the sun came up, that album would be empty.
After that, Mom would be on the phone. Delilah, what have you done?
I told you this bakery was a bad idea. You’re under such strain.
It’s not good for you. I’ve been telling you, haven’t I?
First, I saw the toll it’s taken on your skin, and your hair, and your weight, my goodness.
I told you that! Now, look! You’re saying outlandish things!
Connor’s been so patient with you, but no man is a saint.
Did you ever stop to think about how lonely he’s been?
She’d keep going. That’s what she does best. In the end, it would boil down to, Delilah Aileen Dorsey, don’t you ruin this family Christmas. It’s the first one since your father passed. You’ve always been jealous of your sister.
Don’t do this.
Don’t you dare.
So no. Thanks, but no thanks.
I’m not driving home.
What I need to do is be certain. I need proof.
I don’t know yet what that looks like. I’ll figure it out. I figured out how to get a bakery built with nothing but a credit line and a used deck oven, so I can figure out this.
Until then, I’ll be the same Delilah I’ve always been. Do-It-All Dee. They won’t notice. They never do.
Right then, the timer goes off.
That’s the funny thing about this job: Dough doesn’t care. There’s a half sheet of gingerbread that needs my attention whether or not my husband is sleeping with my sister. If I don’t pull it in the next thirty seconds, the edges turn bitter and it’ll all go right into the trash can.
So I pull it.
And then I keep going, because there are three hundred and something families driving to my counter today and I fully intend to put a smile on their faces.
There’s the O’Briens, who order the same twelve-dozen assortment every year for the office party and tip my whole staff in crisp hundred-dollar bills. There’s Mrs. Feinstein, who’s eighty-four and orders one small cake and eats it over four days. P.S. 218 needs six sheet trays by ten.
None of them did anything to me.
So I want to do right by them.
And more than that, I need something to occupy my mind for a while. Because, if I sit down again, I’m going to start watching those videos on a loop until my staff comes in and finds me in a sobbing puddle on the floor. The work is the only thing in my life that will hold me together.
So I work.
And work, and work, and work.
Finally, as the sun starts to rise, I can step back and take stock of the output.
The case items are in, the wedding layers are wrapped and labeled, and there are nineteen dozen cookies done and drying under the fan.
It’s not everything, but it’s pretty good.
I check the time. I’ve got ten minutes before Priya’s car pulls into the lot.
Which is when I make myself do the last thing.
I wash my hands, dry them properly, then take my phone into the office and shut the door. Dropping into the squeaky chair, I pull up the third video, the only one I haven’t seen, and force myself to watch the whole thing.
It’s two minutes and thirty-eight seconds and I’m not going to describe it because I don’t want it in my head any more than it already is. As much as possible, I try not to focus on the sex.
Instead, I watch the frame edges. I’m looking for anything a stranger could use. A face. A clock. A voice.
A receipt.
Twice, I get something. At about forty seconds, the camera swings and catches the nightstand, and my lamp, and his watch sitting on top of a magazine.
That’s Connor’s watch. I bought it for him for our fifth anniversary. It’s something. It’s not enough, but it’s something.
At a minute fifty, there’s the corner of our closet door and the sleeve of his gray work coat hanging on the back of it.
I hit share on all three files and save them to my phone, straight to the device.
Now, Viv can empty that album whenever she likes. She can burn her whole phone or dunk it in her rose-petal bath at the Four Seasons and it won’t matter.
It’s mine now.
I let out a weary breath and go to swipe out, but the third video is still playing, the last few seconds. Something stills my hand just before I close it.
Connor’s voice, sighing happily. “This is so fucking reckless. We’re gonna get caught.”
Off-camera, out past the edge of the frame, my sister laughs.
“Relax. She never notices anything.”