I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

I spent the day as I spent most days. Tuesday morning yoga at the community center.

Lunch with Margaret, my friend of 30 years, who talked about her daughter’s divorce with the kind of tired resignation that comes from watching your children make the mistakes you predicted. Grocery shopping. I bought salmon for dinner—the wild-caught kind Robert preferred.

Expensive, but worth it for the way it made him smile. The call came at 3:30. “Mrs.

Hammond, it’s Kevin. The phone’s fixed, but…” He paused. And in that pause, I felt something shift.

“Could you come in? There’s something I need to show you.”

“Is there a problem with the repair?”

“No. The screen’s fine.

Just… please come in. And come alone.”

I’d known Kevin for 15 years. I’d never heard that tone in his voice before.

Careful. Frightened, almost. The drive back to Commercial Street took 12 minutes.

I counted them. When you’re 66, you’ve learned to recognize the moments before everything changes. Your body knows before your mind accepts it.

My hands were steady on the wheel, but my heart beat against my ribs like something caged. Kevin was waiting by the door. He locked it behind me, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and led me to the back room where he did repairs.

Robert’s phone sat on the workbench, screen gleaming and intact. “Stella,” he said—and the use of my first name confirmed what I already knew. This was personal now.

Not business. “I need you to listen carefully,” Kevin said. I nodded.

“Cancel the credit cards. Change the locks at your house. Today.

Right now.”

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