Inside the box there was nothing dangerous, nothing that could hurt a body.

It was worse than that.

It was photographs — stacks of them, printed and sharp, each one labeled with a date and a time.

The one on top showed Kingston kissing Ione in a parking garage, four full months before our divorce.

The next showed her getting into his car on an evening I remembered too well, an evening he had told me he was covering an emergency at the firm while I sat up at home with a feverish Otis.

And then more, and more.