She would need him. She always did on Thursdays.

Six months ago, Tyler had brought Charlotte into my pharmacy at Riverside General for the first time. She’d needed anxiety medication, he said. I watched from behind the counter as she laughed, touching his arm in a way that was casual, int:imate, and deeply familiar.

“She’s going through a rough divorce,” he’d explained later.

“She doesn’t have anyone else she can really talk to.”

It started as a casual lunch. Soon it was every Thursday, stretching into three hours while I worked the late shift. Then, one night, I smelled something floral and expensive clinging to Tyler’s shirt. A scent that didn’t belong in our home.

“Do you think Charlotte might be taking advantage of your kindness?” I asked, the words cutting my throat like glass.