I managed to unzip the case inch by painful inch, praying the sound couldn’t be overheard. Easing the camera out, I searched for the small ON switch. Would turning it on make a glow? I couldn’t remember how to work the stupid flash, but I probably needed to engage it because of the cloying darkness. Crud, I should have planned to use the camera on my iPhone. That I could work, and it was usually in my . . .
Oh, crap on a cracker, I’d forgotten to turn my iPhone in my hoodie pocket to vibrate. What if it rang? Or did that little ding thing when someone commented on a Facebook post.
I shoved the camera back into the bag, pulled my phone from my pocket, and found that the phone was already turned to silent.
Whew. That could have been disastrous.
I pushed the home button and noticed a text message on the screen. It was from Scott.
Still at Superior. Running a bit late. Will be home by 10:00. Save me some cheesecake.
That son of a biscuit.
I couldn’t believe the nerve of the man. No doubt he’d pictured me at home watching reruns of Downton Abbey. He’d envisioned me picking up my chirping phone and smiling, grateful I had such a thoughtful husband who worked so hard. He’d likely thought I would text something back like, See you soon. Drive safely.
Good little wifey.
I shot daggers at the message, pressing the little camera icon on the home page.
Screw him.
He was about to find out just what kind of wife I was when I caught him cheating.
Launching myself from the wall, I took two huge leaps, avoiding an uneven patch of ground. I rounded the corner with my phone held in front of me, wondering if I should yell Busted as I made my appearance. I didn’t even care if that turd dog got a piece of me. I was getting this picture. I held the phone tight, my finger in position as I leaped, clicking the little round button as my feet hit the ground. The flash blinded me.
I took a step backward, blinking madly, before squinting against the porch light. I zeroed in on the spot where Scott and Stephanie stood.
Except they weren’t standing there.
The frickin’ back door was closed, with no rabid, fluffy dog in sight.
“Crap,” I whispered, dropping the hand holding the phone against my thigh. I had missed the golden opportunity of catching Scott playing octopus with Stephanie. How had I missed the sound of the door closing?
Planning the bank Christmas party? No problem. Hosting a shower for a hundred guests? Got it. Wrangling a class of kindergartners on a field trip? I’m your gal.
But pressing a little button and getting a pic? Epic fail.
As I stared at the empty spot, a horn sounded.
Ruby.
Moving like a hound out of hell （or a feisty Yorkie with an attitude problem） was on my heels, I lurched toward the gate, unlatched it, and sprinted toward the red convertible idling curbside. The camera thunked against my stomach with each step, mocking my attempt at gathering evidence.
God, I sucked.
Or maybe I didn’t and that was the problem. Stephanie probably sucked better, and that’s why my husband was shacked up with her in her cute little wrong-side-of-the-road cottage role-playing a woodland creature with a freaking butt-plug tail. If I had done more work on my knees, I’d probably be cleaning up the last of Sunday’s cheesecake with Scott while watching TV. Instead I ran like a madwoman, sliding à la Bo Duke across the hood of the Spider, before diving into the classic car.
Ruby hit the gas, making the tires squeal a little.
“Are you crazy?” Ruby said, heading down the dark avenue toward the side street. “And that little slide across the hood was dope, by the way.”
I waved my hand, trying to catch my breath. “I . . . uh . . . I’ve been going to step class at the YMCA.”
“Impressive,” Ruby said, shifting gears and hooking a turn onto the next street. Swinging back to the left, she headed toward Line Avenue on the street parallel to Stephanie’s. There, halfway down, sat Scott’s Toyota Tundra with the flashy jacked-up wheels and brush guard. The man had no doubt cut through the two dark properties sitting behind Stephanie’s house. Neither had a fence, which made it easy to mosey on over to Stephanie’s. How horny did a man have to be to sneak through another person’s side yard to get a piece?
“There’s his truck,” I commented as we rolled past.
“So it is.” Ruby looked at the truck like she wanted to take a bat to the headlamps. That warmed my heart a little. Or the piece of my heart still hanging around.
She looked over at me. “So?”
“I didn’t get the picture, but I nearly got eaten by a Yorkie.”