Every warm thing inside me turned cold.
“I hired someone,” Peter said. “I wanted to be sure I wasn’t misreading it. I wasn’t. Weeks of photographs. Restaurants. A hotel. He kept the same routine every Thursday.”
“Thursdays,” I echoed.
Marcus’s “late meetings” and his locked phone in the garage.
“I confronted him at his office,” Peter went on. “I told him what evidence I had. I said he could tell you himself, file cleanly, and spare Chloe the ugliness. Or I’d deliver every page of it to your front door.”
“So he chose the divorce,” I said. “He chose the story about growing apart?”
“Your husband chose the version that made him look sad instead of guilty. I thought he’d at least tell you the truth once the papers were drawn up. When the private investigator mentioned the cruise and what he’d heard Marcus tell you, I realized he’d lied again. That’s when I knew I had to come myself.”
