Mike Scott

For the next forty minutes, I sat beside my husband pretending everything was normal. He talked about his sister. He complained about traffic. He asked whether I wanted to stop for coffee. I answered normally. But I kept looking at him. And for the first time in eleven years, I found myself wondering whether I actually knew the man sitting beside me. When we arrived at his sister’s house, Daniel immediately went inside. I told him I needed to use the bathroom. I went upstairs. Locked the door. Opened my purse. And unfolded the paper. There were only eight words written on it. Your husband is not who you think he is. Underneath was a phone number. And one name. Detective Miller. I read it three times. Then I sat on the edge of the bathtub because my knees suddenly didn’t feel strong enough to hold me. I stared at those words until they stopped looking real. Your husband is not who you think he is. What was that supposed to mean? Was he cheating?