Mark hadn’t worn his wedding ring in twelve years.
After breaking that finger at work, the ring became uncomfortable, so he’d kept it in our bedroom drawer ever since.
“What’s that?”
He followed my eyes.
For a second, he froze.
Then laughed.
“Probably from holding the fishing rod.”
I didn’t argue.
The next morning, I checked the drawer.
His wedding ring was still there.
That evening, I looked through the photos his friends had posted from the trip.
Boats.
Fish.
A campfire.
Mark appeared in only two pictures.
And in both, his left hand was hidden.
Then I noticed something stranger.
One friend had posted a photo from Saturday morning outside a marina restaurant.
Mark wasn’t in it.
I called the restaurant.
“My husband thinks he left something there Saturday.”
The woman went quiet.
Then she asked, “Is this his wife?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
My stomach dropped.
I hung up before she could say anything else.
That night, Mark acted completely normal.
Almost too normal.
But after he fell asleep, I checked his duffel bag.
