My husband and his childhood friend, Kevin, allegedly went on a midnight drive to a 24-hour diner two towns over to "clear Kevin's head" after a stressful week. My husband texted me right before leaving: "Kevin is really going through it, Soph. We're just going to grab some coffee and talk. Might be a long night."
At 1:15 AM, Kevin’s wife FaceTimed me, looking completely distraught.
"Soph, Kevin’s phone is completely turned off. He told me they were heading west to the diner, but I just checked our joint bank account. Our highway toll tag was just scanned heading east toward the city’s nightlife district."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with a frantic text from my husband: "SOPH! KEVIN'S WIFE IS SPYING ON HIS PHONE. IF SHE CALLS, TELL HER WE CHANGED OUR MINDS AND ARE SITTING IN YOUR CAR IN OUR OWN DRIVEWAY TALKING! PLEASE HELP!"
I looked at Kevin’s wife on the screen, who was quietly crying. "Hold on, let me check something," I said.
I didn't look out the window. I logged into our own highway account. Our vehicle's toll pass had been scanned at the exact same eastern plaza, precisely thirty seconds after Kevin's. They were caravanning together straight to the downtown clubs.
I shared my screen directly onto the video call, showing both of our cars crossing the city line side-by-side.
"They aren't in our driveway, sis," I said. "And they definitely aren't eating pancakes. They just crossed the bridge into the nightlife district together. Go get your answers."
We hung up, but the betrayal was burning a hole in my chest. I wasn't about to sit home and guess what they were doing. I called Kevin’s wife back. "Get in your car. I'm picking you up."