“No.”
He began pacing.
“No. Jenna told me she was going to Michelle’s house.”
“She lied.”
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“No!”
His shout echoed through the cemetery.
A flock of birds lifted from a nearby tree.
He turned toward me, his face twisted.
“Maybe they’re talking. Maybe Dad was helping her with something. Maybe—”
I opened the video.
“Watch.”
He didn’t want to.
I could see it.
But he took the phone anyway.
The video lasted forty-three seconds.
Forty-three seconds was enough.
Mark kissed Jenna.
Not on the cheek.
Not accidentally.
Not ambiguously.
He kissed her with the familiarity of someone who had done it before.
Jenna laughed against his mouth.
Then Mark opened the hotel door for her, and they disappeared inside.
Daniel stopped breathing.
The phone slipped slightly in his hand.
I caught it before
it fell.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he bent forward with both hands on his knees.
“No.”
This time the word was barely audible.
I stood.
“Daniel.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Sweetheart.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward me.
His eyes were wet.
“When did you find out?”
“Today.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw the messages.”
“What messages?”
I told him about the shared tablet.
Same place.
Daniel’s on his night shift.
His face collapsed.
That sentence hurt him more than the photograph.
Because the photograph could still belong to madness.
The message belonged to planning.
To secrecy.
To betrayal repeated often enough to have a schedule.
Daniel walked toward my father’s grave and pressed his palms against the cold stone.
For a moment, I thought he might be sick.
Then he whispered, “Three months.”
“What?”
“We’ve been married three
months.”
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
“I stood in front of everyone and promised her my life.”
