Maybe the shirt was tied to an inside joke. Maybe she had bought it during a memorable moment. Maybe she simply liked it.

“Looks good on you,” I said.

Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thanks.”

During the drive, she spoke enough to cover the silence without actually saying much. Nashville had been noisy. Brooke still danced like she was seventeen. Tessa had cried after one margarita because she missed her dog.

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

“So much fun,” she said, gazing through the window. “I needed it.”

That made me happy. Even proud. I felt as though I had done one small, useful thing for her as a husband.

Then we reached home.

Stacy kissed my cheek, said she needed to wash the airport off herself, and vanished into the bathroom. I carried her suitcase upstairs and tried not to focus on how quickly she shut the door.

While she showered, I prepared dinner. Nothing special—pasta, garlic bread, and a packaged salad I attempted to improve by placing it in a real bowl.

When Stacy came downstairs, she was wearing a different long-sleeve shirt.

It was soft gray, with small coffee stains around the cuff from years of lazy Sundays. In January, it would have looked normal. In that sticky summer heat, while the air conditioner struggled to keep up, it looked completely out of place.

That was when I began watching more carefully.

Even then, I said nothing.

Perhaps she felt insecure about something. Maybe she had burned in the sun. Maybe hotel soap had caused a rash. Maybe she simply wanted comfort. I did not want to become the husband who turned clothing into an interrogation.

At dinner, she moved her pasta around the plate while sharing more stories from the trip. Not enough detail to feel complete, but enough to sound ordinary unless I listened closely.

“We went to this place with live music,” she said. “I don’t remember the name.”

She smiled. “True.”

“Did you get tipsy?”

She covered her face with one sleeve-covered hand. “For most of it, honestly. I don’t remember every little thing.”

I laughed and let it go.

I trusted her.

That had always been the foundation of our marriage. We were imperfect, but trust was the ground beneath everything. We argued over money, chores, her mother, and my habit of dropping socks beside the laundry basket instead of inside it, but I had never questioned where her heart belonged.

I had never needed to.

So I told myself I was imagining problems.

She rinsed dishes while I filled the dishwasher. Normally, she bumped me with her hip or splashed water at me if I stood too close. That evening, she maintained a little distance.

Not enough to be obvious.

Only enough to notice.

Later, we sat watching television, although neither of us seemed invested in the program. Stacy curled beside me beneath a blanket.

Again, long sleeves. Again, pulled down low.

“Missed you,” I said quietly.

She rested her head against my shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Those words should have reassured me.

They did not.

Her breathing eventually became slow and even, and her hand loosened on the cushion between us. I remained awake, staring through the television rather than at it, when she murmured in her sleep and shifted position.

The sleeve caught beneath her arm.

Then it slipped above her elbow.

That was when I saw it.

A fresh tattoo.

Large letters marked across her lower arm.

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