At dinner, he seemed distracted.
Then he reached for his glass, and I noticed a pale band around his left ring finger.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He looked down and froze.
Then he laughed.
“Probably from holding the fishing rod.”
I didn’t believe him, but I said nothing.
The next morning, I checked our bedroom drawer.
His wedding ring was still there.
That evening, I looked through photographs his friends had posted from the trip.
Mark appeared in only two pictures, and his left hand was hidden in both.
One photograph showed his friends outside a marina restaurant Saturday morning.
Mark wasn’t there.
I called the restaurant, pretending he’d forgotten something.
The woman who answered went quiet when I mentioned his name.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Lisa. I’m his wife.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re his wife?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you with that.”
