Six months earlier he’d come home nearly two hours late because a meeting dragged on. He had explained, “Laura wouldn’t stop changing the numbers.” I joked, “Laura sounds exhausting.” He’d smiled at his dinner. “She can be.” Then it meant nothing; now I remembered every detail.
Betrayal seemed capable of traveling backward. Harmless memories suddenly looked like clues I had overlooked. I opened Laura Hayes’s profile. Thirty-eight, dark-haired, friendly smile; no marital status listed. Then I shut the browser. I refused to dissect a stranger’s face looking for evidence that
