“Hey. How’s it going? Is your phone working out for you?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out because I don’t know how to ask him. Do I tell him the truth? The truth would probably convince him to do it for me if there is any store policy about giving this sort of stuff away.
I lean in closer to him and whisper. “I kind of need a favor from you?”
His brows raise. “Me?”
I nod. “Are you able to get someone’s text messages?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
“But like, the content in them?”
He tilts his head and rolls his lips together. “Yes.”
I look at him with begging eyes. “I need my husband’s.”
His eyes widen and his mouth drops open in shock.
“Please,” I say.
I’m expecting him to ask more questions as to why I need them. But instead, he says, “You know I can get in trouble for this?”
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
“From what time period do you need them?”
My face winces. “The past couple of months.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.” He turns around and walks into a back room.
He either thinks I’m crazy or he might be used to this kind of stuff. How many men and women go to their cell phone provider asking for text messages? I’m sure a lot of police do. I doubt they turn them away.
Forty-five minutes later, he comes out with a stack of papers in hand. I rise from my chair, eyes wide, surprised at how many there are.
Before he hands them to me, he says, “I’m trusting you with these.”
“I won’t say a word.” I reach for them and say, “Thank you so much. I owe you.”
He nods with sadness in his eyes. My heart sinks as if my gut feeling is confirmed. Did he read the text messages? Or has he been through this enough to know what is about to go down?
I place the stack of papers on the passenger seat, staring at them as if they’re a loaded gun pointing straight at me. The weight of their meaning presses down on me. My trembling fingers hover over the top page, my mind racing with what these could mean.
A decision.
An ending.
A beginning.
All the unanswered questions whirl around in my mind.
I swallow hard, gripping the steering wheel with my hands and head home.
I spread the papers out all over my living room floor, as if I’m connecting the dots to the missing pieces of a puzzle. A fuck-up puzzle, I should say. The house that was once silent is now filled with my heavy breathing. I focus on the numbers I don’t recognize. I shift through each page that is unrecognizable. Scanning line by line, making sure I don’t miss anything.
