Ten at night. Thursday. Rain coming down in thin, cold sheets that the wipers couldn’t keep up with. The radio was off. The only sound was the tires on the wet road and my own breathing, slow and careful, like I was afraid if I breathed too hard something inside me would crack.
My phone was on the passenger seat. Face up. The video was still open on the screen.
I didn’t look at it. I didn’t have to. I’d already seen it.
My husband of thirty-one years, walking out of a hotel lobby with his arm around our son’s wife.
I turned onto Cemetery Road. The gates of Holy Cross were still open. They never close them. My father used to say that was because the dead don’t keep business hours.
I parked under the big oak by section twelve. I turned off the engine.
Then I reached over and opened the glove box.
