The Bentley didn't move even though the light turned green.
Brooklyn Bridge behind us, Manhattan skyline ahead, big and grey and full of windows where people were eating lunch and not caring that my father was buried an hour ago and my fake husband might have a real baby with my worst enemy.
Adrian's hand was still fisted around the small stone from my father's grave. Mud on his black pants. My black funeral dress muddy on knees. Rosa snoring softly between us, pink dress also muddy, head on my shoulder, tired from crying.
My phone buzzed again in my hand. Same unknown number. Same sonogram photo. Baby Blackwood-Harris, 8 weeks. The message: Check your husband's office safe. Code is your wedding date 0907. The real paternity paper is there. - A Friend Who Knows
I didn't show Adrian at
