I watched him leave and told myself I was being absurd.
Grief did strange things to people. My mother used to say suspicion was simply love with nowhere to land, and lately my love seemed to have nowhere at all.
That evening, I carried a stack of clean towels toward the guest room, but the door would not open.
“Mark?” I called. “Why is the guest room locked?”
“Is it?” he called back from downstairs. “Must’ve stuck. I’ll take a look in a minute.”
“Do you have the key?”
“Somewhere,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
I kept my hand on the doorknob for a long moment.
Then I walked away, because that was what a sensible wife did.
That was what a woman who trusted her husband was supposed to do.
By the following afternoon, I had nearly convinced myself that nothing was wrong.
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