Rebecca’s POV
I almost didn’t go.
The next morning I stood in my kitchen with my second cup of coffee going cold in my hand and had a very reasonable, very measured conversation with myself about the difference between knowing something and needing to see it. I already knew.
I had already known since the night I stood at the top of the staircase and heard his voice doing that, clipped and careful and stripped of everything that made it his? I had known since the lunch basket set aside without being opened? Since Rose Benson’s laugh dissolving in the air of my husband’s office like she had every right to leave her sound in his space?
I knew.
But there is a particular cruelty in knowing something you haven’t confirmed. It leaves a gap. A small, treacherous gap where doubt lives, not t
