Behind the maternity coats, Claire remained perfectly still. I imagined her holding her breath, terrified of the ruin she’d invited into my home.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

The sound was muffled but unmistakable, coming from the darkness of the closet — a distinct, rhythmic vibration. I knew that pattern. Claire had customized it for Owen’s calls so she’d never miss him.

Damon’s eyes bugged out. He let out a loud, fake cough, aggressively clearing his throat and kicking the footboard to mask the noise. “Must be… construction outside,” he stammered, though our neighborhood was entirely silent.

“She’s healthy,” I said, my voice eerily steady. I didn’t tremble. I didn’t scream. Every instinct in me wanted to yank that door open, drag my best friend out by her hair, and demand why her lingerie was under my bed while I’d been looking at my child alone.

But Damon’s phone sat face-up on the mattress. Claire had hers with her inside the closet. If I confronted them now, it would be a screaming match. They would deny, deflect, erase their messages, call it a misunderstanding, and coordinate an airtight version of events before I could even reach Owen.