And they certainly had no idea about the thick manila envelope tucked safely inside my tote bag.

Standing on that platform, watching the last car of the train shrink into the falling snow, I opened the bag and ran my fingers slowly over the high-resolution photographs hidden inside, the photographs I had been carrying for two months, waiting for the right moment.

They had just sealed themselves inside a fifty-hour rolling prison, out of cell range for most of it, unreachable, unable to intervene in anything, while I flew ahead of them to a destination they could not imagine.

Now, I thought, the only question that remained was what would happen when I arrived at Julian’s parents’ house, that very afternoon, entirely alone, carrying undeniable proof of my husband’s affair with his brother’s wife.