Donald Whan was 34 years old and until that Thursday afternoon in late November 2024, he thought he had the perfect marriage. He was a high school history teacher in Atlanta, making about $52,000 a year. And for the past 6 years, he’d been married to Glenda, a woman he thought he knew better than anyone in the world.
That day, Donald made a decision that would shatter everything he believed about love, loyalty, and the woman sleeping next to him every night. He decided to surprise his wife on her business trip to Miami. Glenda worked as a senior account manager for Meridian Pharmaceutical Marketing, a midsize firm that specialized in launching prescription drug campaigns.
She’d been climbing the corporate ladder fast, traveling frequently for client meetings and conferences. Her salary had reached $95,000 annually with performance bonuses that sometimes added another 15,000. Donald had always been proud of her success, never once feeling threatened by the fact that she out earned him nearly 2 to one.
He’d supported every late night at the office, every weekend workshop, every business trip that took her away from their modest three-bedroom craftsman home in Decar. Their marriage had seemed solid. They had date nights when Glenda was in town. They talked about having kids someday, maybe in another year or two when her career stabilized.
They’d renovated the kitchen together last spring, spending weekends at Home Depot, picking out tile and arguing playfully about cabinet hardware. Donald thought they were building something real, something lasting. This particular trip was supposed to be a 3-day pharmaceutical conference at the Ocean View Resort in South Beach.
Glenda had left on Tuesday morning, kissing him goodbye at the door. Her designer Tumi luggage, a gift from her company for hitting sales targets. rolling behind her as she headed to her white BMW 3 series in the driveway. She seemed distracted that morning, checking her phone constantly, but Donald had attributed it to work stress.
She was pitching a major campaign to a new client, she’d explained over coffee. The deal could mean a significant promotion to senior director, maybe even breaking into six figures. This conference could change everything for us, babe, she’d said, adjusting her silk scarf. David thinks I’m ready for the next level.
David Price was Glenda’s direct supervisor, a senior vice president who’d been with Meridian for eight years. Donald had met him twice at company holiday parties, a tall fit man in his early 40s who wore expensive Tom Ford suits and drove a leased Tesla Model S. He had an MBA from Wharton in a reputation for being brilliant but demanding.
Glenda had always described him as a mentor figure who was helping her navigate corporate politics and position herself for advancement. Donald had planned to spend the weekend alone, grading essays on reconstruction and the civil rights movement while watching college basketball. It was a comfortable routine.
Order Thai food, sprawl on the couch with his red pen, enjoy the quiet of an empty house. But Wednesday evening, everything changed. His mother called with unexpected news. His aunt Helen, his father’s sister, who lived in Savannah, had sent him a check for $3,000 as a belated birthday gift. She was 78 and had been saving money in an envelope system for years, setting aside cash for each of her nieces and nephews.
When she’d cleaned out her closet, she’d discovered she’d been saving for Donald’s birthday for nearly a decade. “She wanted you to have something special,” his mother explained. “Maybe take Glenda somewhere nice.” Donald stared at the check, an idea forming. $3,000 wasn’t life-changing money, but it was enough to do something spontaneous, something romantic.
Glenda had been so stressed lately, working 12-hour days, bringing her laptop to bed. When was the last time they’d had a real adventure together? When was the last time he’d surprised her with something thoughtful? He spent an hour researching flights. There was a Delta flight leaving Thursday at 2:15 p.m. that would get him to Miami by 6:47 p.m.
Roundtrip ticket $387. He booked it. Then he found a highly rated beachfront restaurant called Azour that Glenda had mentioned wanting to try after seeing it on Instagram. Reservation for two at 8:30 p.m. Confirmed. He even ordered flowers from a Miami Flores for delivery to himself at the hotel. Two dozen roses, Glenda’s favorite.
Donald told his principal he had a family emergency and needed Thursday afternoon off. He packed an overnight bag with a nice shirt, his good jeans, cologne. He imagined Glenda’s face when he knocked on her hotel room door. The surprise, the delight, the spontaneous romance of it all. They’d have dinner on the beach, walk along the water, reconnect away from the demands of their busy lives.
The flight was smooth. Donald used the 2 and 1 half-hour journey to grade some papers and think about his marriage.They’d met at a mutual friend’s barbecue 7 years ago. Glenda had been working in entry-level pharmaceutical sales, driving all over Georgia to pitch doctors on cholesterol medications. Donald had just started his teaching career, still idealistic about shaping young minds.
They’d bonded over both having demanding jobs that didn’t pay enough and dreams of traveling to places they couldn’t yet afford. Their first date had been miniature golf, followed by cheap Mexican food. Glenda had beaten him by six strokes and hadn’t let him forget it for months. She was competitive, ambitious, driven, qualities Donald admired because they balanced his more laid-back approach to life.
She pushed him to be better, to take risks, to not settle for comfortable mediocrity. They’d married after a year of dating in a small ceremony at a winery in North Georgia. 75 guests, a string quartet, vows they’d written themselves. Glenda had promised to choose him every day, to build a life of honesty and partnership. Donald had promised to support her dreams and be her constant in a changing world.
For 5 years, those promises had seemed real. The plane landed at 6:47 p.m., right on schedule. Donald grabbed his overnight bag from the overhead bin and made his way through the Miami airport, his heart beating faster with excitement. The November evening was warm and humid, a welcome change from Atlanta’s crisp autumn air.
He caught an Uber, a Honda Accord driven by a chatty guy named Roberto, who spent the 20-minute drive talking about the best Cuban restaurants in Miami. The Ocean View Resort was everything the photos promised. sleek modern glass architecture, towering palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze, a circular driveway where valet in crisp white uniforms rushed to assist guests arriving in Porsches and Range Rovers.
The lobby was all marble and contemporary art with a massive chandelier made of blown glass that looked like frozen water droplets. Donald approached the front desk, suddenly aware of how out of place he felt in his khakis and polo shirt among all the business executives in expensive suits.
The young woman behind the counter, her name tag said. Maria smiled professionally. Checking in, sir. Actually, I’m here to surprise my wife, Donald explained. Glenda Whan, she’s staying here for a conference, room 847. Maria’s fingers moved across her keyboard, her eyes on the screen. Donald watched her expression shift subtly, something like confusion, then discomfort.
She looked up at him, and there was pity in her eyes. Donald’s stomach tightened. “I see Mrs. Whan checked in Tuesday,” Maria said carefully. “But sir, I’m not able to give you a room key. Hotel policy requires I’m her husband,” Donald said, pulling out his driver’s license and their wedding photo on his phone. “See, same last name, same address.
” Maria glanced at the photo, then back at her computer screen. She bit her lip. Mr. Whan, I The room is registered under your wife’s company credit card, but there’s another guest listed on the reservation. The lobby suddenly felt too warm. Another guest. Maria looked around, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. A Mr. David Price.
He checked in yesterday afternoon. The name hit Donald like a physical blow. David, her boss, her mentor, the man who was supposedly helping advance her career. I see, Donald said, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. Thank you for your help. He walked away from the desk in a daysaze, his legs moving automatically toward the elevator bank.
Other hotel guests brushed past him. Couples laughing. Businessmen on phones. A family with two small children. Normal people having normal evenings. Donald felt like he was watching them through glass, separate from their world. He pressed the button for the eighth floor. The elevator doors closed and he saw his reflection in the polished brass.
a man who suddenly looked older, more tired. The elevator rose smoothly and Donald’s mind raced. There had to be an explanation. Maybe David had booked a separate room and the system was confused. Maybe they were working late and David was just in her room discussing the presentation. Maybe the doors opened on the eighth floor.
The hallway stretched out before him, silent and carpeted in deep burgundy. Abstract paintings lined the walls. geometric shapes that probably cost thousands of dollars. The hotel smelled like expensive air freshener and money. Room 843, 845, 8:47. Donald stood outside the door, the roses he’d retrieved from the concierge desk, feeling absurdly heavy in his hands, he raised his fist to knock, but stopped when he heard voices through the door.
Glenda’s voice, breathy and laughing. Then a man’s deeper voice saying something Donald couldn’t quite make out. Then came the sounds that would replay in his nightmares for weeks afterward. Laughter shifting into moans. The rhythmic creaking of furniture, heavy breathing, and Glenda’s voice. Her intimate voice, the one she used intheir bedroom, saying things Donald had thought were meant only for him.
God, yes. Right there, David. The words cut through him like broken glass. Donald felt his knees weaken. Felt the world tilt sideways. The roses slip from his hand, falling silently onto the plush carpet. His entire body went numb. Yet somehow he was hyper aware of every detail. The hum of the ice machine down the hall, the faint smell of cleaning products, the abstract painting across from room 847 that showed red slashes across a black canvas.
His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except those sounds from beyond the door. Sounds that meant his marriage was over. Sounds that meant everything he’d believed about his life was a lie. If you enjoy stories of shocking betrayals and sweet revenge, like this video and subscribe to the channel now. There are brand new stories here every day, each one more intense than the last one we produce.
and tell me where you are watching from and tell us what you like about your city country. Donald didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes maybe, could have been five, could have been 10. Time felt distorted, elastic. Part of him wanted to pound on that door to burst in and confront them to make them face what they were doing.
But a larger part of him, the part trained in historical strategy, in understanding how power shifts and conflicts resolve, told him to wait, to think, to plan. Confronting them now in his current state of shock and rage would accomplish nothing. Glenda would cry. David would apologize. They’d both make excuses.
It would be his word against theirs, his hurt feelings against their careful justifications. They’d find a way to make him the bad guy, the jealous husband, the insecure man who couldn’t handle his wife’s success. No, Donald needed leverage. He needed evidence. He needed to understand the full scope of what was happening before he made any moves.
He picked up the roses from the carpet, walked back to the elevator, and returned to the lobby. His hands were surprisingly steady as he approached Maria at the front desk again. “I need a room for tonight,” he said. Do you have anything available? Maria looked relieved that he wasn’t making a scene. Of course, Mr. Whan.
We have a standard room available for $279 per night. Donald handed over his credit card. Money that would come from their joint checking account, he thought with bitter irony. He took the key card and went up to room 623, six floors away from his wife and her lover. The room was nice. King bed with crisp white sheets, a view of the ocean, a mini bar.
or he ignored despite desperately wanting a drink. Donald sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out his phone. His first instinct was to call Glenda, to scream at her, to demand answers. Instead, he opened his phone’s camera and began documenting everything. He took photos of the hotel exterior, the lobby, the hallway on the eighth floor.
He took a photo of his airline ticket showing his arrival time. He opened his note app and started writing down every detail he could remember. the sounds he’d heard, the conversation with Maria at the front desk, David’s name on the room registration. Then Donald did something that felt both calculated and surreal.
He composed a text message to Glenda. Hey babe, hope the conference is going great. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Can’t wait to hear all about the presentations when you get home. Miss you. Love you. He stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send. Let her think everything was normal. Let her believe she’d gotten away with it.
Let her have no idea that her husband knew the truth. Three dots appeared almost immediately. Glenda was typing. “Miss you, too. Conference is exhausting, but good. Learning a lot. David’s presentation went really well. Probably going to be another late night. Love you.” Donald felt sick reading her casual lies.
How many times had she done this? how many late nights and conference trips had been covers for sleeping with David. He set his phone down and stared at the ceiling, his mind working through the implications. They were both married. He’d met David’s wife, Patricia, at a company party two years ago. She was a pediatric nurse, Korean-American like David, elegant and kind.
She’d talked enthusiastically about their two kids, showing Donald photos of soccer games and piano recital. Did she know? Was she sitting at home in their Buckhead house, trusting her husband, just as Donald had trusted his wife? Donald spent the night in that hotel room, barely sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard those sounds from room 8:47.
Every time he started to drift off, he’d jerk awake with his heart racing. He ordered room service at midnight, a burger he barely touched, and spent hours on his phone researching. He looked up divorce laws in Georgia. He learned that while Georgia had moved away from fault-based divorce, adulterycould still affect property division, alimony, and attorneys fees.
He read articles about surviving infidelity, about the stages of grief, about how to protect yourself financially when a marriage ends. He also researched David Price. LinkedIn showed an impressive resume. Wharton MBA, eight years at Meridian Pharmaceutical, a steady climb up the corporate ladder. David’s profile picture showed him at some industry conference looking confident and successful in an expensive suit.
By 3 a.m., Donald had made some decisions. He wasn’t going to confront Glenda in Miami. He wasn’t going to give her any warning that he knew. He was going to fly back to Atlanta on Friday morning as planned. And he was going to spend the weekend gathering information, understanding the full scope of the betrayal, and planning his response.
Because Donald understood something that Glenda and David didn’t. In any conflict, the person with the best information and the most patience usually wins. Friday morning, Donald took an Uber back to the airport. He flew home to Atlanta, landing just after noon. He drove to their house in Decar, the house they’d bought together, the house where they’d hosted dinner parties and Christmas mornings and lazy Sunday brunches.
Now it felt like a crime scene. Evidence of a life that had never been as real as he’d believed. Donald walked through the rooms seeing everything differently. The framed photos on the walls, their wedding day, a vacation to Asheville, Glenda’s promotion party now felt like propaganda posters for a government that had already fallen.
The kitchen where they’d cooked together, the bedroom where they’d made love, the home office where Glenda spent hours on work calls, all of it was tainted now, corrupted by betrayal. He went to Glenda’s home office, a converted spare bedroom with built-in shelves, and the expensive ergonomic chair. She kept everything meticulously organized, color-coded file folders, labeled binders, a large wall calendar marking her schedule.
Donald photographed all of it. The calendar showed a pattern he hadn’t noticed before. Multiple entries for conference Miami and client meeting Chicago and workshop New Orleans over the past 8 months. How many of those trips had actually been about work? How many had been cover stories for meeting David? In her desk drawer, under insurance documents and old tax returns, Donald found a note written on expensive cream colored stationery. V.
Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you. I know we have to be careful, but God, I wish I could wake up next to you every morning. Same time next month. We can try that place you mentioned. D. The note was dated 4 months ago. July. They’d been doing this since at least July, probably longer.
That meant Glenda had been lying to him for at least a third of their marriage. She’d been looking him in the eyes, sleeping in their bed, making love to him, planning their future, all while conducting a secret relationship with her boss. Donald photographed the note from multiple angles, careful to capture the handwriting, the date, every damning detail.
Then he put it back exactly where he’d found it. Evidence. He was building a case, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what his endgame was. He spent Friday afternoon going through old credit card statements on their joint account. He found charges at restaurants he’d never been to, florists delivering flowers he’d never received, hotels in cities where Glenda had supposedly been at conferences.
The paper trail was extensive once he knew what to look for. Donald also discovered something else in Glenda’s financial documents. She’d recently increased her life insurance policy through work from $100,000 to $500,000. The paperwork was dated 6 weeks ago. Donald was listed as the beneficiary. Was it just standard corporate benefits during open enrollment? Or was Glenda planning something? The thought sent chills down his spine, though he immediately dismissed it as paranoid.
Glenda wasn’t a murderer. She was just a cheater. By Friday evening, Donald was exhausted but resolved. He needed professional help. He pulled up his contacts and found James Morrison, his old college roommate who now worked as a private investigator in Birmingham. They’d stayed close over the years, meeting up several times a year for drinks and Hawks games.
Donald called him. James answered on the second ring, sounding cheerful. Donald, what’s up, man? You coming to Birmingham soon? We need to. I need your professional help, Donald interrupted. and I need this to stay completely confidential. James’ tone changed immediately, becoming serious. Of course, what’s going on? Donald explained everything.
The surprise trip to Miami, what he’d heard outside room 847, the note he’d found, the pattern of suspicious trips. When he finished, there was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Jesus, Donald,” James said quietly. “I’m so sorry. That’s I don’t even havewords for how much that sucks. I need information, Donald said.
I need to know if this is just an affair or if there’s more to it. I need to know about David Price, his background, company policies, whether he’s done this before, and I need documentation that would hold up legally if it came to that. Can you help me? Absolutely, James said without hesitation. I’ll start digging tomorrow.
But Donald, are you sure you want to go down this road? Sometimes knowing more just makes the pain worse. Sometimes it’s better to just file for divorce and move on with your life. I can’t move on until I understand what happened. Donald said, I need to know the full truth. All of it. Okay, James agreed.
Give me about a week. I’ll be thorough. And Donald, I’m really sorry, brother. You didn’t deserve this. After hanging up, Donald sat in the living room of his house and let himself feel the full weight of what had happened. His marriage was over. Whether or not he decided to pursue divorce immediately, whether or not he chose to expose Glenda and David publicly, the relationship he’d believed in was already dead.
You can’t unknow something once you know it. You can’t unhear those sounds from outside room 847. Donald cried then for the first time since Miami. He cried for the life he’d thought he had, for the future he’d imagined, for the trust that had been shattered beyond any possible repair. He cried until he had no tears left, until he was just empty and exhausted.
Then he dried his eyes, ordered a pizza, and started planning what came next. Because Glenda and David had made a critical mistake. They’d underestimated him. They’d seen a mild-mannered history teacher who never made waves, never caused scenes, never fought back. They’d assumed he’d be easy to deceive, easy to manipulate, easy to discard when Glenda was ready to upgrade to a man with a bigger salary and a more impressive title.
What they didn’t understand was that Donald spent his days teaching young people about strategy, about how wars are won and lost, about how patient planning defeats impulsive reactions every single time. He taught units on the American Revolution, how the Continental Army won not through direct confrontation, but through strategic retreat and calculated strikes.
He taught about the civil rights movement, how lasting change came from careful organization and documented evidence, not just emotional outbursts. Donald Whan was about to apply those lessons to his own life. Saturday morning, Glenda’s flight landed at 3:15 p.m. Donald picked her up from the airport, pulling up to the arrivals curb at Hartsville Jackson just as she emerged with her rolling suitcase.
She looked beautiful, her dark hair professionally styled, wearing a navy blazer and designer jeans, carrying the leather bag he’d given her for their anniversary last year. She also looked tired with shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. “Hey, baby,” Glenda called out, waving. She came over and kissed him and Donald tasted betrayal on her lips.
“God, it’s good to be home. I missed you so much.” “Missed you, too,” Donald said, taking her suitcase and loading it into the trunk of his Honda Civic. “How was the flight?” “I exhausting turbulence over the Gulf.” And I sat next to a guy who wouldn’t stop talking about cryptocurrency. She slid into the passenger seat and immediately checked her phone.
“How was your week?” Quiet, Donald said, pulling away from the curb. Just work and grading papers. Nothing exciting. In the car, Glenda talked animatedly about the conference, the keynote speakers, the breakout sessions on digital marketing strategies, the networking dinner on the final night. She had details prepared, anecdotes ready.
If Donald hadn’t spent Thursday night in a Miami hotel room, hadn’t heard what he’d heard, he would have believed every word. She was a skilled liar, he realized. practiced comfortable with deception. “Oh, and I have amazing news,” Glenda said as they merged onto I 85 toward Decar. “David told me on the flight back he thinks I’m ready for that senior director position that’s opening up in Q1.
It would mean a bump to about $125,000 base, plus better bonuses and more stock options. We could finally think about moving to a bigger house, maybe something in Brook Haven or Virginia Highland. four bedrooms, a real backyard. Maybe even start thinking about kids for real. That’s incredible, Donald said, keeping his voice neutral. David’s been really supportive of your career.
He really has, Glenda agreed, smiling. He’s been such a great mentor. He sees potential in me that I didn’t even see in myself. I feel so lucky to have him as a boss. Donald’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Yeah, you’re really lucky. They arrived home and Donald helped carry Glenda’s luggage inside.
She immediately headed for the bedroom to unpack while Donald went to the kitchen and opened the wine he’d bought. A pino noir from Oregon, Glenda’s favorite. He poured twoglasses, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. That evening, they had dinner together like a normal couple. They drank the wine Donald had bought.
They sat on the couch and watched an episode of the cooking show Glenda liked. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, and Donald sat there for an hour, barely breathing, his arm around a woman who was now essentially a stranger to him. Make sure you’re subscribed to this channel if you have not, because the ending of this story will blow your mind, and drop a comment below telling me what you think Donald should do next.
Sunday, Glenda spent most of the day in her home office catching up on emails and preparing for Monday’s meetings. Donald went for a long run through their neighborhood, needing to think, needing to process everything. The November air was cool and crisp, and the physical exertion helped clear his head. By the time he returned home, sweaty and exhausted, he’d made several decisions about how to proceed.
There was a text from James waiting for him. Initial findings are very interesting. A lot more here than just a simple affair. Can we talk Monday evening? I’ll have a preliminary report ready. Donald deleted the text immediately. He was being careful now about all his communications, all his actions, all his reactions. He couldn’t afford to leave any evidence that Glenda might stumble across.
He needed to maintain his cover as the trusting husband while he built his case in the background. That Sunday evening, as they prepared dinner together, grilled chicken and a salad, falling into their comfortable domestic routine, Donald watched Glenda carefully. She seemed relaxed, happy even. She hummed while she chopped vegetables.
She told them about a funny meme one of her co-workers had sent. She made plans for them to see a movie next weekend. She felt no guilt, Donald realized, or if she did, she’d learn to compartmentalize it so completely that it didn’t affect her day-to-day behavior. She could spend 3 days sleeping with her boss, then come home and seamlessly resume being a loving wife.
The cognitive dissonance was stunning. They went to bed at 10:30, and Glenda curled up next to him like always. “I love you,” she murmured sleepily. “I’m glad we have this. Some of my co-workers have such messy relationships, so much drama. I’m grateful we have something solid. Me, too, Donald whispered into the darkness and wondered if Glenda could hear the hollow ring in his voice.
He lay awake long after she’d fallen asleep, listening to her breathing, feeling the weight of her body against his side. This was his wife. They’d stood in front of 75 friends and family members and promised to be faithful, to cherish each other, to build a life together. Those vows had meant everything to Donald. He’d taken them seriously, lived by them, never even been tempted to break them.
Apparently, they’d meant nothing to Glenda. Or maybe they had meant something once and then something had changed. Maybe David had offered her something Donald couldn’t. Wealth, power, status, excitement. Maybe the comfortable life Donald provided wasn’t enough for a woman with big ambitions. Maybe he’d never been enough and Glenda had just been waiting for someone better to come along. Donald didn’t know.
And lying there in the dark, listening to his wife’s peaceful breathing, he wasn’t sure which possibility hurt more. That Glenda had never really loved him, or that she had loved him once, but had decided he wasn’t worth staying faithful to. Either way, the marriage was over. The only question now was how it would end and what consequences Glenda and David would face for destroying it.
By Monday morning, Donald had his emotions firmly under control again. He woke up, made coffee, watched Glenda get ready for work like he’d done a thousand times before. She was humming softly as she put on her makeup, already checking her phone every few minutes. Donald noticed she smiled at certain messages, typed quick responses, then set her phone face down on the bathroom counter.
probably texting David, Donald thought, planning their next rendevous, making sure their stories aligned about the Miami conference. Big day, he asked, keeping his tone light. Just the usual chaos, Glenda replied, applying lipstick. David wants to debrief about Miami, and we’ve got a major client presentation this afternoon. I’ll probably be home late.
Sorry. No problem, Donald said. I’ve got a ton of essays to grade anyway. Glenda kissed him goodbye, a quick distracted peck, grabbed her coffee thermos and leather bag, and headed out the door. Through the kitchen window, Donald watched her BMW pull out of the driveway and disappear down the treeine street.
The moment she was gone, Donald pulled out his phone and opened a new note file. He titled it evidence log and began methodically documenting everything he knew so far. every lie Glenda had told, every suspicious chargeon their credit cards, every detail from Miami, every message and call that seemed suspicious in retrospect.
He was building a case. And by the time he was done, Glenda and David would understand that betrayal doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Actions have consequences, and those consequences can be far more devastating than they ever imagined. Monday at school felt surreal. Donald taught his first period American history class about the reconstruction era, discussing how the South attempted to evade the consequences of losing the Civil War through black codes and Jim Crow laws.
His students, a mix of juniors and seniors, debated whether true reconciliation was possible without accountability. Mr. Whan, a student named Jasmine, asked, “Do you think people can change if they never face consequences for what they did?” Donald thought about Glenda, about David, about all the lies and betrayals. No, he said finally.
I think consequences are what force us to confront our actions and decide who we want to be. Without consequences, why would anyone change? He had no idea how prophetic those words would become. At 4:30 p.m., Donald left Pidea and drove to a Starbucks in Midtown, far enough from both their neighborhood and Glenda’s office in Buckhead, that there was zero chance of accidentally running into her or anyone who knew them.
James Morrison was already there, sitting in a corner booth with a laptop, a manila envelope, and two cups of coffee. “Got you a dark roast,” James said as Donald slid into the booth. They shook hands and Donald was grateful for the solid grip, the genuine sympathy in his friend’s eyes. “How are you holding up?” “I’m functional,” Donald said.
“Tell me what you found.” James opened his laptop. David Price, age 42, married for 15 years to Patricia Price, Aiden A. Park. She’s a pediatric nurse at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta, works part-time so she can be home when the kids get out of school. They have two children, Emily, 13, and Joshua, 10. Both kids go to Westminster, which runs about $30,000 per kid per year in tuition.
He pulled up a photo, a family portrait that must have been from social media. Patricia was elegant, smiling, standing beside David with their two kids in front of a Christmas tree. They look like the perfect family. David’s been with Meridian Pharmaceutical Marketing for 8 years, James continued. Climbed from account manager to senior vice president.
