Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.
Mark sat at the corner booth of the coffee shop on 6th and Hemsworth, the smell of espresso and cinnamon buns hanging heavy in the air. He hadn’t touched the cup in front of him. It was full, dark liquid steaming up at him like an accusation. His fingers tapped the ceramic absently, thumb grazing the edge of the handle again and again, a nervous tic he hadn’t noticed until he looked down.
He hadn’t seen Ronnie since Friday night. Since she told him to leave. Since the photos—the fakes—had detonated whatever fragile foundation they’d been standing on.
Four days. It had only been four days, but it felt like he’d aged years.
He stared blankly out the window. People passed by outside, umbrellas popping open to guard against the light spring drizzle. Inside, couples chatt
