Not because it was funny.
Because I was angry enough to mistake disbelief for confidence.
“Your password. Your authorization.”
Then came the photographs.
An envelope appeared at my office.
Inside were pictures of Laura entering a boutique hotel outside Durham.
In one photograph, she was beside a tall man.
In another, the two appeared to be walking through a side entrance together.
The man’s face was hidden.
Laura’s was partially turned away.
But the coat was hers.
The bag looked like hers.
The hair was hers.
