I was just about to pay for my things—couple shirts, some moisturizer, nothing crazy—when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned around and saw Yvette. My brother-in-law’s wife. She looked like she’d been crying, but her smile was trying to cover it.
“I’ll get it,” she said, pulling out a stack of hundreds from her bag like it was no big deal.
I told her no, absolutely not, I had it covered. But she insisted—pushed the bills into my hand and leaned in close. “Seriously,” she whispered, “I need you to do me a favor.”
That’s when she told me not to mention this to Julian. Her husband. My brother-in-law. Said she just “needed to move some cash around” and would “explain later.”
I didn’t ask questions right then—mostly because the cashier was staring and I didn’t want to cause a scene. But something felt off. She had designer bags in one hand and smudged eyeliner in the other. Her energy was all over the place.
