My Husband Bought His Mistress Our Downstairs Apartment novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: The Third Slice

On Saturday I worked the counter at Bree's, because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't a knife.

Bree had put me in an apron that said Day-Old Scones Are Not a Weapon.

"That's a lie," I said.

"It's aspirational."

By noon the line ran to the door.

Half of it, I realized, had come to look at me.

Paloma's video from the steakhouse had gone around, and so had the one of Dexter with scones on his suit.

A woman in a gray coat reached the register and set down a single croissant.

"You're her," she said. "From the video."

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," I said. "That's fair."

She slid her phone across the counter.

"I'm not trying to be nosy," she said. "My sister bartends at a wine bar on Perry Street. She saw this and recognized the face from the news. She sent it to me because I'm the gossip."

On the screen was a photo of a woman at a corner table, laughing.

She wore a black dress, and she was holding a glass of red wine.

It was Paloma.

The timestamp read Tuesday, 9:41 p.m.

"My sister says she had three," the woman said. "She says she asked for a fourth."

Bree had stopped wiping the counter.

I looked at the photo for a long time.

"Can you send me that?" I asked.

"Already did."

"Thank you."

"I just think," the woman said, "somebody should know."

She took her croissant and left.

Bree leaned across the counter.

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