The days that followed did not resolve so much as deepen. That was the first surprise for Elise — that knowing the truth did not empty the suspicion; it merely changed its shape. She found herself watching Daniel's phone without meaning to. She found herself remembering ordinary evenings from the previous winter and re-coloring them: Daniel stepping outside to take a call, Daniel saying he needed to swing by the hardware store, Daniel quiet at dinner with a distance she had attributed to work. Some of those evenings had likely been Natalie. Some had likely been nothing. The not-knowing sat between them like a third plate at the table.
On the fourth morning, Toby asked if they could build a snowman with a coral scarf because coral was his new favorite word. Elise laughed, then felt the laugh catch. Daniel retrieved a red scarf from the coat hook instead and declared it close enough. While Toby packed snow with mittened determination, Elise stood at the window with coffee cooling in her hands and said, without turning, "I keep inventorying our marriage for other hidden bags."
Daniel, lacing his boots by the door, went still. "Ask me anything."
"Did you ever delete messages from her?"
"Yes. After she died. Not because they were romantic. Because they were operational — times, places, the attorney's name — and I panicked that Greg might somehow get access if my phone was ever... I don't know. I wasn't thinking clearly. I should have archived them and given them to you."
"Did you cry in places I didn't see?"
"Yes. In the car. In the shower. Once in the stairwell at work."
"Did you resent me for not noticing?"