My chest tightened.
“Because of what?”
The detective tapped the photograph.
“That’s what we don’t know yet.”
Then he turned the page over.
On the back was a handwritten list of initials.
My husband’s initials were there.
So were mine.
I stared at them.
“I never agreed to any of this.”
“I know.”
“Then why are my initials here?”
The detective looked at me.
“That’s one of the questions we need your husband to answer.”
When my husband finally arrived at the hospital, he looked as though he hadn’t slept.
He stood outside the room until I allowed him in.
He didn’t try to touch me.
He didn’t ask me to forgive him.
He simply sat down.
“There was another notebook,” he said.
I already knew.
“Where?”
“My mother’s storage room.”
“Does she have it?”
He shook his head.
“I took it before I came here.”
