Lauren moved around the kitchen, humming lightly as if nothing was wrong. Her smile was practiced, her routine flawless, but Andrew noticed the small things now. How she avoided his eyes, how her goodbye kiss landed not on his lips, but his cheek, how her car backed out of the driveway quicker than usual.
The moment she left, Andrew dialed a number he hadn't used in years.
"Blake Investigations," a voice answered.
"Tommy, it's me, Andrew."
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "Callahan, been a long time, buddy. What's going on?"
Andrew hesitated. The words felt bitter in his mouth. "I think Lauren's cheating on me. I need proof."
Silence. Then Tommy's tone shifted into the professional seriousness Andrew remembered from their college days. "Meet me tonight. Same old place. Murphy's Bar. And Andrew, don't do anything stupid before then."
The hours crawled. Andrew buried himself in construction plans at work. But every time his pen hit the page, his mind replayed the text: Can't wait for tomorrow. Marriott, room 508.
By evening, he walked into Murphy's Bar, the weight of betrayal clinging to him like a second skin. Tommy was already there, leaning back in a booth, nursing a beer. His old friend had aged like the rest of them. Lines around his eyes, greyer hair, but the sharpness in his gaze remained.
"You look like hell," Tommy said.
"I feel worse."