I pressed answer but said nothing.
For two seconds, all I heard was Graham breathing.
Then his familiar voice filled the hotel room.
“Ellie?”
Thirty-one years of marriage can make one word dangerous.
I knew every version of my husband’s voice: tired, affectionate, irritated, distracted, proud.
This one was controlled too carefully.
“Hi, Graham.”
Another pause.
“Where are you?”
Not how are you.
Not why didn’t you tell me you were coming home.
Where are you?
I looked at the folder open on my laptop.
Celeste smiled beside him beneath an American flag, my silver star pendant resting against her chest.
“Why?” I asked.
“Audrey said you might be back.”
So Audrey had not called him.
He had called her first.
“Did she?”
“Ellie, don’t do this.
Just tell me where you are.”
I almost laughed.
He had spent months telling me he missed me while another woman occupied my home, wore my jewelry, walked through his company as his wife, and somehow I was the one who was not supposed to do this.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” I said.
“Ellie—”
I ended the call.
Then I called Audrey back.
She answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“I’m fine.
I need you to do something for me.
Don’t tell your father where I am.
Don’t lie for me.
Just don’t volunteer anything.”
“What’s happening?”
I stared again at the photograph from the Veterans Honor Dinner.
“I’m figuring that out.”
Audrey was quiet.
“Is this about Celeste?”
That was the moment the floor seemed to move for the second time that day.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“You know her?”
Audrey inhaled sharply.
“Mom—”
“How long?”
“I knew Dad was seeing someone.
I didn’t know what he was telling people.
He said you two had problems and that you knew.”
I shut my eyes.
“Did I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“Did I ever tell you your father and I were separated?”
“No.”
“Because we weren’t.”
She started crying softly.
