Chapter 4: What Joanna Said That I Didn't Want to Hear
Joanna picked up before the second ring.
I had walked out to the back porch, door pulled almost shut behind me, voice low.
The night was cool and the yard was dark and I could see the light still on in our bedroom window — Evelyn's bedroom window — from where I stood.
"Tell me everything," Joanna said.
"Start from the beginning."
So I did.
I told her about Evelyn arriving and taking the bedroom.
I told her about my clothes on the floor and her clothes on my hangers.
I told her about the lingerie.
I told her about the phone.
When I finished, Joanna was quiet for a moment.
"How long have you known something was wrong?" she asked.
"I didn't know anything was—"
"Clara."
I stopped.
"How long?" she said again.
Gentler this time.
I looked up at the bedroom window.
The light shifted slightly, like someone had moved past the lamp.
"A while," I said.
"I don't know.
Maybe a year.
He's been distant.
I kept telling myself it was stress.
Work.
The kids."
"And you kept telling yourself that because it was easier."
"Yes."
"Okay," she said.
"Okay.
So now you know it wasn't stress."
"I don't know what it is yet.
He says they haven't done anything."
"What does your gut say?"
I thought about the messages.
The careful early ones.
The way they'd stopped being careful.
The question about the deed.
"My gut says the physical part might be true," I said slowly.
"But the rest of it — the planning, the talking, the way his mother is involved — that feels like something that's been going on for a long time."
"It does," Joanna said.
"Clara, listen to me.
I'm not going to tell you what to do.
But I am going to tell you this — you need to know exactly what you're dealing with before you say another word to him.
Or to her."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you need to see those messages properly.
All of them.
Not just what you caught a glimpse of tonight."
"His phone has a passcode."
"Does his laptop?"
I thought about it.
Mark's laptop sat on the desk in the study.
He used it for work, mostly, but he used the same email account for everything.
He always had.
"I know his email password," I said quietly.
"He gave it to me two years ago when he was traveling and needed me to print something."
"Has he changed it?"
"I don't know."
"Find out," Joanna said.
"Tonight, after he's asleep.
And Clara — don't confront him again until you know everything.
Right now you have one piece of something.
You need the whole picture."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"And the woman?" Joanna asked.
"Diane.
Can you find out who she is?"
"He said they met at a conference.
Said she's going through a divorce."
"A woman going through a divorce who tells your husband he deserves better than his life." Joanna's voice was flat.
"That's not a friend, Clara.
That's a plan."
I heard the back door open behind me.
I turned.
Mark stood in the doorway, backlit from the kitchen.
"It's late," he said.
"Who are you talking to?"
"Joanna," I said.
Something moved across his face.
He knew Joanna didn't like him.
He'd always known.
"Come to bed," he said.
"In a minute."
He stood there another moment, then went back inside.
The door didn't close all the way.
"He's listening," Joanna said quietly.
"I know."
"Call me tomorrow.
And Clara — photograph everything you find.
Don't just read it.
Photograph it."
"Okay."
"You're not overreacting," she said.
"I need you to hear that."
I looked up at the bedroom window again.
The light was still on.
"I know," I said.
But I wasn't sure I believed it yet.
I went back inside.
Mark was already in the hallway, heading toward the living room couch without a word.
I went to the study.
Sat down at his laptop.
Opened it.
The screen woke up.
His email was still open in the browser.
I typed in the password.
It worked.
I found the folder he'd labeled *Conference — March* and opened it.
There were forty-three emails between Mark and Diane.
The first one was dated thirteen months ago — two months before he'd told me she was just someone he knew from work.
The subject line of the very first email read: *I haven't stopped thinking about our conversation.*
And below it, in Diane's words: *Neither have I.
I think we need to talk about what we actually want.
Both of us.*
I took out my phone and started photographing the screen.
I was on the nineteenth email when I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.
May you like
I didn't look up.
The creak stopped just outside the study door.
