I refused to confront him at his father’s funeral. But that tiny whisper clung to me all the way home, like a thread I couldn’t stop pulling.
That evening, after the house settled into its uncomfortable quiet, I finally asked Arthur — calmly, cautiously — just how “close” he and Rachel really were. The defensive spark in his eyes, the sharpness in his tone, the way he bristled instead of reassured… it all told me everything he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud.
By dawn, I had logged into an old shared work email account he’d forgotten existed. And there it was: the truth laid out without apology.
Months of intimate emails. Hotel confirmations. Pictures taken on nights he claimed he was “working late.”
