A murmur moved through the church like a breeze through dry leaves.
Grant sat up straighter.
“I didn’t understand at first,” I said. “I asked him why he’d do that. He told me I’d looked unhappy for months. He said I smiled too quickly and then stopped too fast. He said I made excuses for my husband that sounded practiced.”
My hand tightened around the papers.
“He wanted to make sure I was safe,” I said. “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t being lied to.”
Now the church was silent. Even the baby in the vestibule had stopped crying.
I looked directly at Grant. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. A warning. A plea. Hard to tell with him anymore.
“The report included photographs,” I said. “Hotel lobbies. Candlelit dinners. Airport arrivals. Weekends I had been told were business. It included enough dates and timestamps to make the pattern very clear.”
Someone in the third pew whispered, “Oh my God.”
Becca’s spine had gone completely rigid in front of me. I could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat, right above the crystals on my dress.
“I spent the last two days grieving my father,” I said, “and learning that while he was dying, my husband was having an affair.”