Or maybe he didn’t want to spend the day with me so that he could be on this flight.
There was no confusion in his voice, just confidence.
That was a man who believed his wife was safely at home while he performed his new life in public.
I stayed in that bathroom until someone knocked.
“Ma’am? Are you all right in there?”
“Yes,” I lied.
When I returned to my seat, the woman beside me pretended not to notice my face. I was grateful for that mercy.
The rest of the flight lasted a century.
I kept staring at the seatback in front of me while my mind crawled through memories like broken glass.
Every late return, every extra overnight, every distracted smile over the last few months was suddenly suspicious.
The sudden password on his phone. The way he’d started taking calls in the garage.
