Taped beneath the bottom drawer of his desk, I found a second phone — a cheap, anonymous one.

The passcode was my birthday.

Even his secrets, it turned out, were organized around the woman he was keeping.

The first message on it had been sent six years ago, before we were even married: The girl is insecure.

Her father is sitting on a fortune.

It’ll be easy to isolate her. I read it standing in his office in the gray morning light, and I did not cry.