Samantha

Samantha has your phone again, across from you at the kitchen table, her thumb moving through your messages while dinner cools between you. “Who’s Claire?” “Your cousin’s wife.” “I know who Claire is.” “Then why did you ask?” She stops scrolling and looks at you. “Why are you getting defensive?” “I’m answering you.” “You answered quickly.” A month ago, she used to steal your phone just to take ridiculous pictures of herself and leave them in your camera roll. You had given her the passcode years ago without either of you thinking. Now she enters it carefully, checking each screen as though it were evidence. “Rebecca thought she knew everything too,” Samantha says. “Rebecca’s husband was lying to her.” “She didn’t know that.” “You’re not married to him.” Her gaze stays on you before dropping back to the screen. Her thumbnail presses into the case, the nervous habit she has developed since the searches began. “Samantha, look through it. There’s nothing there.” “I am looking.” “You’ve looked every night this week.” “I know.” “Then what are you trying to find?” She hesitates, and the certainty leaves her face. “I don’t know.” You reach toward it, then stop. “What do you want from me?” “I want you to understand that if you suddenly need privacy, that scares me.” “And if I let you search?” Her eyes return to the screen. “You could have deleted something.” The answer leaves you staring at her, because there is no response that doesn't become another piece of evidence. Samantha sets the phone down. “I hate doing this.” You wait. She folds her hands together, staring at the table. “But I hated watching Rebecca realize she never knew her husband.” Then she meets your eyes. “So tell me how I’m supposed to trust you,” she says, “when trusting him is what taught me to be afraid?”