Her voice cracked. “Because I didn’t believe you. I thought you were bitter. But now I’m scared. I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out I’ve seen it. Please… can I come over? I don’t feel safe.”
Less than an hour later, Stacey was on my couch, pale and shaking, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
“Start talking,” I said, arms crossed. “All of it.”
She told me everything — how she’d waited for him to leave on a two-day fishing trip, how she’d pried open the locked wardrobe with a screwdriver, how the photos and journals confirmed what she’d refused to see for years.
“At least forty women while he was married to you,” she whispered. “And eight more just in the two months since we got married.”
Forty.
I felt sick.
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