I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

I keep meaning to do that.”

He moved to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer. “Kevin do his usual good work?”

“Perfect as always,” I said, and turned back to the salmon. He didn’t suspect.

He’d planned everything with such confidence that it never occurred to him the phone might betray him. Or perhaps he’d simply forgotten those scheduled messages, tucked away in a feature he assumed I’d never discover. Arrogance.

It would be his downfall. We ate dinner at the table, just the two of us in the dining room that had once held five. Robert talked about a new dental assistant he’d hired.

About the Red Sox’s disappointing season. About our son Michael’s upcoming visit for Thanksgiving. Normal conversation.

Comfortable lies wrapped in the routine of 41 years. “Actually,” Robert said, setting down his fork, “I’ve been thinking about the holidays. Maybe we should have everyone here this year.

The whole family could be our last big gathering before…”

He trailed off, made a vague gesture. “Before what?” I asked, though ice was forming in my stomach. “Before we get too old for this big house,” he said smoothly.

“I’ve been thinking we should downsize. Maybe a condo, less maintenance.” He reached across the table, patted my hand. “And honestly, Stella, I’ve been worried about you.

The stairs. Your memory lately. I think something smaller might be better.”

My memory.

He was laying groundwork even at dinner. Making his case for my incompetence. My decline.

How many other people had he told? How long had he been building this narrative? “My memory is fine,” I said quietly.

“Of course it is,” he said, that patronizing smile. “I just want what’s best for you. For us.”

After dinner, Robert retreated to his study—a room I rarely entered, his domain of dental journals and financial records.

I cleaned the kitchen with the same precision I’d used to cook. And then I went upstairs to our bedroom. Our bedroom.

I looked at it with new eyes. The queen bed we’d shared for 41 years. The photographs on the dresser.

Our wedding. The kids at various ages. Grandchildren.

Robert’s reading glasses on the nightstand. My mystery novels stacked beside the lamp. Which side of the bed would Laura sleep on once I was out of the picture?

I sat at the small desk in the corner, opened my laptop, and began to search. Finding L wouldn’t be easy. A single initial provided no trail.

But Robert was a creature of habit. And habits left patterns. I started with his email.

I’d known his password for years—the same digits as his phone, his mother’s birthday. He’d never bothered to hide his accounts from me. Why would he?

I was just Stella. His agreeable wife. The woman who never cried.

Never questioned. His inbox revealed nothing unusual. Emails from the dental practice.

Confirmations for tee times at the golf course. Newsletters from investment firms. I scrolled back three months, six months, looking for anything addressed to someone with an L name.

Nothing. I checked his sent folder. His deleted items.

His spam. Hours passed. Downstairs, I heard Robert’s study door open, his footsteps heading to the kitchen for his nightly cup of tea.

The house settled into its familiar sounds around me. And I kept searching. At 11:00, I found the first thread.

Continue reading…