They kept me overnight.

The hospital room was small and cold and the IV line itched at the crook of my elbow, but by eleven that night my temperature had dropped to 101.2, and by morning it was 99.8.

The attending physician, a tired woman with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, told me I had a severe respiratory infection that had been building for at least a week.

"Did you have any earlier symptoms?" she asked.

"I thought it was stress."

She looked at me over the glasses.

"It usually is, at first."

Jonathan arrived at eight in the morning with coffee and a folder.

He set the coffee on the tray table and the folder in his lap and waited while I drank.

"Tell me about Ethan," I said.

He opened the folder.

"Ethan is not in Atlanta."

I set the cup down.

"He hasn't been in Atlanta since Monday morning," Jonathan continued.

"He checked out of the conference hotel after the first session.

His phone has been pinging off a cell tower in Asheville since Monday afternoon."

"Asheville." The word sat strangely in my mouth.

"That's two hours from Raleigh."

"Yes."

"Who does he know in Asheville?"

Jonathan removed a photograph from the folder and placed it on the tray table without comment.

It was a printout from a social media profile.

A woman, mid-thirties, dark hair, standing outside a restaurant I didn't recognize.

Her name was printed in the caption below.

Serena Voss.

I didn't know the name.

I had never heard it.

But something about the way Jonathan had placed the photo — carefully, without looking at me — told me the name was not new to him.

"How long?" I asked.

"We believe approximately fourteen months."

Fourteen months.

I counted backward without meaning to.

Our third anniversary had been eleven months ago.

I had planned a dinner.

Ethan had come home late, said he was exhausted, apologized in the morning with flowers I'd put in a vase without thinking.

"He used the conference as cover," Jonathan said.

"He's done it at least three times in the past year."

"Does Diane know?"

Jonathan paused.

"I think Diane knows more than she has said."

I looked at the photograph again.

Serena Voss.

A stranger who had been living inside my marriage for over a year.

"Why are you showing me this now?" I asked.

"Why not last night?"

"Because last night you had a 104-degree fever and your mother-in-law had just physically pulled you out of bed." He closed the folder.

"I needed you to be able to hear it."

I nodded slowly.

"There's more," he said.

"Of course there is."

"Ethan has been making financial inquiries.

In the past six months, he has consulted two attorneys — neither of them me — about the process of contesting a spousal estate trust."

The coffee cup was still warm in my hands.

"He was trying to get to my father's money."

"He was researching whether he could."

"And could he?"

"No." Jonathan's voice was flat and certain.

"The trust is airtight.

Your father was very specific.

The assets transfer solely to you, are held solely in your name, and cannot be claimed, divided, or accessed by a spouse without your written consent." He paused.

"Your father was a careful man."

"He didn't trust Ethan."

"He never met Ethan.

He drafted those protections before you were engaged." Jonathan looked at me steadily.

"I think he simply knew you."

My throat tightened.

"I need to call Ethan," I said.

"I'd recommend waiting until—"

"I need to call him now." I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

"I need to hear what he says when he doesn't know what I know."

Jonathan was quiet for a moment.

Then he sat back in his chair.

"All right," he said.

"I'll stay."

I found Ethan's name and pressed call.

It rang four times.

Then his voice, easy and warm, the voice I had trusted for four years.

"Hey, you.

How are you feeling?"

"Better," I said.

"The fever broke."

"Thank God.

Mom texted me, said you'd been taken to the hospital.

I was so worried."

His mother had texted him.

Not called.

Texted.

"When are you back from Atlanta?" I asked.

A half-second pause.

So small I might have missed it a week ago.

"Friday evening," he said.

"Same as planned."

I looked at Jonathan across the room.

He was watching me without expression.

"Good," I said.

"We have a lot to talk about."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

"Is everything okay?"

"It will be," I said.

"Drive safe."

I ended the call.

Jonathan looked at the phone in my hand.

"He's going to call Diane the moment he hangs up," I said.

"Yes."

"And she's going to tell him about the envelope."

"Yes."

I set the phone down on the tray table next to the photograph of Serena Voss.

"Then we have until Friday evening," I said.

Jonathan almost smiled.

"I've already made some calls."