ep when I got up. I made coffee, my mi
ded t
g out. His phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up, my fingers surprisingl
th "My Little Muse." Her contact photo was a selfie, pouti
ojis, inside jokes I didn't understand, plans to meet. "Can't wai
Sophia M." Small amounts, mostly. $27.77. Again and again. Wha
yments for "art supplie
d her. Of course, he did. I logged into his Instagram on his phone. Her feed was a curated coll
ry specific guitar pick. It was a custom pick I'd given Ethan for his birthday two years ag
That pick was usua
her shoulder. Only his arm was visible, but the watch on his wrist was unmistakab
a fling. This was a pattern. A betrayal
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