That Tuesday morning, after Brad left in his blue shirt and his cologne, I found his phone on the kitchen floor.

It must have fallen out of his jacket pocket when he leaned over to kiss me. It was face-down on the tile by the refrigerator.

I picked it up. I wasn’t going to look at it. I want to be honest. I’d never once gone through Brad’s phone in eleven years of marriage. Not once.

But as I picked it up, the screen lit up.

A text message.

From: Chloe

Room 412. Today’s the day. You promised you’d tell her.

I stood in my kitchen holding my husband’s phone.

Chloe Dawson. His assistant. She was thirty-two, with long auburn hair and a big laugh. I’d met her at his office Christmas party the year before. She’d hugged me. She’d told me Brad talked about me all the time.

Room 412.

Today’s the day.

You promised you’d tell her.

I knew where Brad’s company held all its client meetings. The Marriott downtown, across from his office building, the one with the rooftop restaurant.

I picked up my car keys.

I don’t remember the drive downtown. I remember parking in the garage across the street. I remember walking into the lobby of the Marriott in my jeans and my old gray cardigan, with my hair still in a messy ponytail from the morning. I remember getting into the elevator with a businessman holding a coffee, and pressing 4, and watching the numbers light up.

The fourth-floor hallway was long and quiet and carpeted in dark red.

I found Room 412 at the end of it.

I didn’t knock. I didn’t know what I’d say if I knocked.

I just stood outside the door with my hand flat against the wall beside it.

I could hear voices inside. Muffled through the wall. A man and a woman.

Brad’s voice. Low. I couldn’t make out the words.

Then Chloe’s voice, louder. Upset. Crying, maybe.

“You have to tell her, Brad. Today. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep lying to her. It’s killing you.”

Brad said something I couldn’t hear.

“She deserves to know,” Chloe said. “All of it. Before something happens.”

I stood there with my hand on the wall.

Then I heard Brad say, very clearly, “When I tell her, she’s going to leave me, Chloe. She’s going to want a divorce.”

I took my hand off the wall.

I walked back down the long red hallway to the elevator, and I went home.

When I got home, the house was quiet.

I walked into the kitchen. The BEST HUSBAND mug was still sitting by the stove, full of cold coffee.

I picked it up. I poured the coffee down the sink. I set the mug down beside the sink and stood there with both hands on the edge of the counter.

That’s when I noticed the pharmacy bag.

It was a small white paper bag from CVS, folded over at the top and stapled shut, sitting on the counter by the fruit bowl. I hadn’t seen it that morning. I was sure it hadn’t been there.

My name was written across it in black marker.

EMILY.

I stared at it. I didn’t open it. I didn’t touch it.

I was still standing there, staring at that bag, when the doorbell rang.

Three times.

Not twice. Not the quick, impatient double press Brad used when he forgot his keys.

Three slow, deliberate rings.

I walked down the hallway to the front door. I’d left it unlocked. It had swung open a few inches in the wind.

For a moment, I thought about not answering.

Then the woman outside said my name.

“Emily?”