his phone.
It was on the bedside table, within reach. I knew his passcode. He had never tried to hide it from me, and I had never felt the need to look through his private conversations.
But I didn’t touch it.
I wanted to know the truth, not merely find a few messages that could be explained away.
At some point after midnight, I finally understood what I needed to do.
The next morning, I would follow him.
I wouldn’t confront him in the driveway. I wouldn’t demand an explanation
