Inside a side pocket was a motel key card and a receipt from a jewelry store two towns away from the lake.
No fishing receipt.
No bait shop.
Just the jeweler.
The next morning, Mark left for work.
I waited until his car disappeared down the street.
Then I opened his laptop.
The password had been changed.
After three failed attempts, I remembered the name of the lake he’d supposedly spent the weekend at.
The screen unlocked.
There was only one unfamiliar folder on the desktop.
No title.
Just a small ring icon.
I clicked it.
And what I saw inside made my hands go numb.
But the worst part came an hour later.
Chapter 2: Forty-Eight Hours
Before I tell you what was in that folder, I need you to understand what I had already decided it would be.
For forty-eight hours, I had been building a case against my husband, and I had been building it well.
A ring mark on a finger that hadn’t worn a ring in twelve years.
A hand hidden in every photograph.
A restaurant where a woman went silent and asked if I was his wife.
A motel key.
