I circled the house.
Robert walked past our bins exactly as I expected.
He continued down the alley and stopped two houses away beside an old detached garage owned by a couple who spent most of the year in Florida.
Then he opened the garbage bag.
My heart started pounding.
Robert reached inside and removed a small package wrapped in brown paper.
I recognized the wrapping immediately.
We kept that exact brown paper in our hall closet for mailing fragile objects.
Then a woman stepped out from behind the garage.
Young.
Maybe late twenties.
Thirty at most.
She wore a long coat, and her hair was bright blue.
Robert handed her the package.
I stopped breathing.
There I was, hiding in the shadows, watching my husband of almost three decades secretly hand a young woman something wrapped in paper.
Every ugly suspicion I had spent the previous nights trying to dismiss suddenly felt real.
