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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KATHY WAS OUT WHEN I GOT HOME.
I opened her laptop and tried to access her email—but with no luck. She was logged out.
I had to accept that she might never repeat her mistake. Would I keep checking ad nauseam, give in
to obsession, driving myself mad? I had enough self-awareness to appreciate the cliché I had become —the jealous husband—and the irony that Kathy was currently rehearsing Desdemona in Othello hadn’t escaped me.
I should have forwarded the emails to myself that first night, as soon as I’d read them. Then I’d have some actual physical evidence. That was my mistake. As it was, I had begun questioning what I had seen. Was my recollection to be trusted? I’d been stoned out of my mind, after all—had I misunderstood what I had read? I found myself concocting outlandish theories to prove Kathy’s innocence. Maybe it was just an acting exercise—she was writing in character, in preparation for Othello. She had spent six weeks speaking in an American accent when preparing for All My Sons. It was possible something similar was going on here. Except the emails were signed by Kathy—not Desdemona.
If only I had imagined it all, then I could forget it, the way you forget a dream—I could wake up and it would fade away. Instead I was trapped in this endless nightmare of mistrust, suspicion, paranoia. Although on the surface, little had changed. We still went for a walk together on Sunday. We looked like every other couple strolling in the park. Perhaps our silences were longer than usual, but they seemed comfortable enough. Under the silence, however, a fevered one-sided conversation was taking place in my mind. I rehearsed a million questions. Why did she do it? How could she? Why say she loved me and marry me, fuck me, and share my bed—then lie to my face, and keep lying, year after year? How long had it been going on? Did she love this man? Was she going to leave me for him?
I looked through her phone a couple of times when she was in the shower, searching for text messages, but found nothing. If she’d received any incriminating texts, she had deleted them. She wasn’t stupid, apparently, just occasionally careless.
It was possible I’d never know the truth. I might never find out.
In a way, I hoped I wouldn’t.
Kathy peered at me as we sat on the couch after the walk. “Are you all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You seem a bit flat.”
“Today?”
“Not just today. Recently.”
I evaded her eyes. “Just work. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Kathy nodded. A sympathetic squeeze of my hand. She was a good actress. I could almost believe
she cared.
“How are rehearsals going?”