Chapter 12: Ninety Days

I opened the folder at his kitchen counter with the shower still running down the hall.

The first photograph was dated July 19th.

It showed my husband's car outside a hotel on Superior Street, and my sister getting out of it in sunglasses.

The next one showed the two of them in a restaurant window, his hand over hers.

The next was a hotel corridor, a door, her key card.

There were thirty-one pages, each one stamped with a date, and in the corner of every page in black ink were two initials.

A.C.

Ninety days of my life, laid flat on a countertop.

I stood there and didn't move for a long time.

The water stopped, and Alistair came down the hall in a gray T-shirt with his hair wet.

He saw the folder, and he saw me, and he stopped three steps away.

"Tavi."

"July nineteenth," I said.

"Yes."

"You had these on July nineteenth. And on the first of August."

"And the night of the gala, when you sat at table one."

"Yes."

"That's it? Yes?"

He put both his hands flat on the counter.

"I was given them in July. I read them in my study at night."

"I told myself it wasn't my business."

"I told myself if I came to you with photographs of your husband in a hotel, you'd think I was making a move."

His voice stayed steady, and it cost him.

"I told myself I'd wait for you to see it yourself."

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