I rubbed my forehead.

“You have the wrong person.”

“I expected you to say that.”

“I’ve been married to her for ten years.”

“I know.”

“Then how could I not know?”

Keller didn’t answer immediately.

Finally he said:

“Your marriage may be one reason other people didn’t know either.”

I stopped moving.

“What does that mean?”

“A stable husband. A suburban home. Regular employment. Joint tax returns. Neighbors who know you. Holiday photographs. Ten years at the same address.”

I looked again at the anniversary picture.

“You’re saying I’m part of it.”

“I’m saying your life gave her credibility.”

I couldn’t speak.

Keller continued.

“We don’t currently believe you knowingly participated in anything.”

“Currently?”

“We have to verify that.”

That was the first moment I understood that I wasn’t only losing my wife.

I could lose my job.

My savings.

My house.

Maybe my freedom.

I Chose to Stay

Detective Keller gave me two options.

I could step away.

Hire an attorney.

Stay somewhere safe.

Let investigators continue without me.

Or I could cooperate.

“What would cooperating mean?”

“Going home.”

I almost laughed.

“You told me not to go home.”

“Until we spoke.”

“And now you want me sleeping beside her?”

“I’m not going to pressure you.”

I walked into Diane’s living room.

On the mantel was a photograph from our wedding.

Rebecca was laughing in it.

I remembered that moment.

Her veil had gotten caught on a rosebush outside the church, and she’d whispered something about burning the whole thing after the reception.

I remembered laughing so hard I nearly ruined the photographer’s shot.

That memory felt real.

I hated that I couldn’t prove it was.

“Do you think she’s leaving?”

Keller hesitated.

“Yes.”

He said investigators had seen signs of money being moved and preparations that could indicate an exit plan. There appeared to be financial identities and arrangements I knew nothing about.

“How soon?”

“We don’t know.”

I looked down at Rebecca’s text.

Dinner tonight?

“I’ll help.”

Keller’s voice became firmer.

“Then understand something. You don’t become a detective. You don’t search places she might notice. You don’t accuse her. You don’t take risks.”

“What do I do?”

“Live normally.”

That turned out to be the hardest thing anyone ever asked me to do.

I went home that afternoon.

Rebecca was in the kitchen cutting a lemon.

She looked up.

“How’s Mom’s faucet?”

I had forgotten about the faucet.

“Fixed.”

“Seriously?”

“Loose connection.”

She smiled.

“Look at you.”

Then she kissed my cheek.

I stood there holding my gym bag while she went back to cutting the lemon.

“Chicken okay tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Rice or potatoes?”

“Rice.”

“Good. We’re out of potatoes anyway.”

That was my first night inside my fake marriage.

Or maybe it had been fake for years.

I just happened to know now.

Six Weeks Beside a Stranger

For six weeks, Rebecca and I drank coffee together every morning.

She used the blue mug I’d bought her in Nashville.

I used the chipped Ohio State mug she’d threatened to throw away at least twenty times.

“We need detergent,” she’d say.

“I’ll get it.”

“Can you call the insurance company?”

“Sure.”

“Dinner with the Martins Friday?”

“Sounds good.”

Normal conversation became exhausting.

Detective Keller stayed my only direct contact.

I gave him information when he requested it. Dates Rebecca claimed to be traveling. Names she’d mentioned. Devices she regularly used. Changes in her schedule.

I did not dig through drawers or break into accounts.

Most of the serious evidence came from the investigation already underway.

But living beside her helped them understand which parts of her routine were genuine and which ones weren’t.

I started noticing things I’d ignored before.

Rebecca had two phones sometimes.

She’d always said one belonged to work.

She changed passwords frequently.

She never left financial documents lying around.

When she traveled, she packed light.

Once, years earlier, I’d joked that she could disappear to Europe with one carry-on.

She’d smiled and said:

“That’s because you pack like you’re evacuating.”

I used to love that line.

Now it kept coming back to me.

One Thursday, Keller asked to meet me in the parking lot of a grocery store several miles from my office.

He sat in an unmarked sedan.

There was a thin folder between us.

“We found messages.”

I didn’t reach for the folder.

“About what?”

“You.”

I looked at him.

“What about me?”

He turned one page around.

There were only a few lines.

Rebecca had been discussing travel arrangements with someone.

One message mentioned me.

Not by name.

Not as her husband.

The word she used was:

cover.

I read the line twice.

“That’s me?”

“Based on context, yes.”

I gave the page back.

Keller watched me.

“You don’t have to continue.”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

But I went home.

Rebecca was on the sofa with a blanket over her legs.

Our wedding picture was hanging above her.

“There you are,” she said. “I was about to order without you.”

I took off my coat.