That alone should have been suspicious.
Mark loved exaggerating fish stories.
The next morning, after he left for work, I opened our bedroom drawer.
His wedding ring was exactly where it had been for twelve years.
I picked it up.
Cold metal.
Same scratches.
Same ring.
So whatever had left that pale band on Mark’s finger was not this.
That evening, I checked the photographs his friends had posted online.
There were plenty.
Ben holding a fish.
Tom laughing beside the marina.
Three of the men eating breakfast.
Mark appeared in only two pictures.
And in both, his left hand was hidden.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe not.
Then I noticed a photograph from Saturday morning.
His friends stood outside a marina restaurant.
Mark wasn’t with them.
I stared at the picture for a long time.
Then I did something I had never done in nineteen years of marriage.
I called the restaurant.
