My husband returned from a three-day fishing trip with a wedding ring mark on his finger — he hasn’t worn a ring in 12 years. My husband had taken the same fishing trip with his friends every summer for years. Three days at a lake. Bad cell service. Cheap motel. Nothing unusual. But when Mark came home Sunday night, something felt different. He hugged me quickly, carried his bag upstairs, and barely talked through dinner. Then he reached for his glass. That’s when I saw it. A pale band around his left ring finger. A perfect wedding ring mark. 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.

Maybe he thought I would never look.

Maybe he had become so comfortable lying that he no longer thought he needed to hide things carefully.

I saved copies of everything.

Every photograph.

The video.

The program.

Then I searched Claire’s name.

I found a gift shop near the lake.

Public phone number.

I called.

“Is this Claire?”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

My mouth went dry.

“My name is Lisa.”

A pause.

“I’m Mark’s wife.”

Silence.

Then she laughed nervously.

“I’m sorry. Who?”

“Lisa.”

I swallowed.

“I’ve been married to Mark for nineteen years.”

Her voice hardened.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You’re sick.”

“Claire—”

“Mark’s wife is dead.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“His wife died twelve years ago.”

My hand started shaking.

Claire’s voice became angry.

“Whoever you are, this is disgusting.”

Then she hung up.

I sat frozen.