Cross the Line, Cross Them Out

Thomas snapped the screen off, his swagger inflating further.

"You heard me?" he said. "Remove the old man and the mutant. Ban them from the mall permanently."

The boutique manager maintained perfect courtesy but stood firm. "Sir, do you even realize who you're speaking to?"

Thomas faltered for a split second, his suspicious gaze flicking toward me. The photo had shaken me to my core, but I stepped forward, my voice like ice. "Say it again. Who is your girlfriend?"

Thomas scanned the sea of doubtful faces, then erupted. "Imogen Slater, CEO of the Slater Group!"

A snicker escaped someone in the crowd. Laughter rippled outward like a wave.

Thomas hurled the shoebox to the floor. "You dare mock me? I'll have Imogen fire every single one of you!"

The manager sighed, ready to explain, but I raised a hand to stop him, facing Thomas's anger head-on. "They say Imogen Slater is beautiful and wealthy, with a lot of admirers. How do we know you're not just another impostor? Prove it with maybe a phone call?"

Thomas fumbled for his phone, all thunder and bravado. "Laugh while you can! I'll make you regret this!"

A growing crowd pressed against the glass doors outside, eager for the spectacle. He dialed repeatedly, but each attempt met the same automated voice: "The subscriber you have reached is powered off."

His bravado crumbled, and he spat, "Just you wait!"

He scooped up his shoes and bolted for the exit. The staff members shrugged and returned to their routines.

The manager bit his tongue, looking troubled. Reading his mind, I reached for my phone and called Imogen, but her phone was switched off.

One instance might be a coincidence. Two identical failures formed a pattern.

I clenched my fists until the muscles ached. A slow chill spread through me.

That afternoon, I walked Simon to school. The whole incident felt like a splinter in my chest, throbbing with every step.

As a member of the parent volunteer group, I was on duty that day to hand out traffic-safety flyers. The other volunteers, ever hungry for gossip, flocked over.

"Abraham, did you see that tweet? Don't brush this off," one said.

They tapped open Thomas's account and analyzed the odds of Imogen having an affair.

"You'd better watch out these days," another chimed in. "Women can be tempted easily. Especially true for someone as outstanding as her."

Just then, the woman who had been unreachable all afternoon called, sounding tired. "Honey, my phone died earlier. Everything okay on your end?"

Before I could answer, she continued breezily, "Oh, and cancel tonight's dinner reservation. I've still got work to handle."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Her assistant had clocked out by five; what work could she possibly have? It was Simon's birthday, so even if a true emergency arose, she should move mountains to be here.

The call ended, but a few moments later, a familiar, brash voice burst through the doorway. "Hello everyone, I'm Lotta's uncle, newly joined the volunteer group. Nice to meet you all."

Every jaw in the vicinity dropped, while my eyelids twitched at the sight of him.

Thomas's cheerful grin curdled instantly upon spotting me. "It's you again!"

He pointed at my nose and raised his chin. "Actually, this is perfect. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down. My girlfriend is picking me up tonight. We'll see who's been lying."

The others exchanged awkward looks, while something in me snapped. I could no longer tolerate this persistent, poison-tinged connection.

My open palm cracked across his cheek with a resounding slap. "In that case, make her come here now!"

Was Imogen cheating on me? It was time to settle the question once and for all.