message read:
When do I get to stop being the secret?
His reply was just as revealing:
Soon. She doesn’t know anything.
I had discovered it in the kitchen beside a half-finished coffee, with the dishwasher running and a truck reversing somewhere outside. Pain fixes peculiar details in the mind. Years of ordinary conversations fade, yet I can still remember the refrigerator’s faint motor on the day everything changed.
Rather than phone either of them or break the tablet, I saved the messages and opened our bank records. By 6:
