It was wrapped in a yellow microfiber cleaning cloth.
I pulled the bundle out and set it on the green blotter. I unfolded the cloth slowly, my breath shallow in the quiet room.
A small black burner phone lay in the center of the fabric. It was a cheap, prepaid model, the kind you buy at a convenience store for twenty dollars.
There was no dust on the screen.
My fingers trembled as I pressed the power button on the small black device.
The screen flickered, casting a dull blue glow across the mahogany desk drawer. I held my breath, waiting for a passcode screen, but the cheap plastic phone opened straight to a list of missed and dialed calls.
There were no names saved in the address book, only a single ten-digit number repeated over and over.
The screen light began to dim. I tapped the side volume button to keep the display active, the cold plastic slipping slightly in my palm.
I counted the entries twice to be sure of what I was looking at. Thirty-two calls. Some were placed at two in the morning, while others had been dialed during the middle of the business day. The durations varied, with some lasting only forty seconds and others stretching for nearly an hour.
The dates went back three months, matching every single night Joe had claimed to be at the regional distribution office in New Haven. He had told me the shipping systems were failing, requiring his personal supervision. He had said he needed to keep the business running, even if it meant working until dawn.
My hand felt cold. I touched the gold wedding band on my finger, turning it slowly. The gold was smooth, worn thin over twelve years of marriage, but it felt heavy against my skin now.
I picked up a blue ballpoint pen from the leather desk organizer. The cap was tight, and I had to pry it open with my teeth, the plastic leaving a faint chemical taste on my tongue.
