It was a faded hotel folio, a reception receipt, timestamped from the night our marriage ended.

His hands had begun to shake.

“Where did you get this?” “I kept it,” I said.

“Along with the front-desk record you refused to look at, ten years ago, when Felicia told you I was in that room with a man.” I nodded at the folder.

“Look at the room number, Garrett.

And then read the third page.” He turned to the last document, the notarized affidavit, and his eyes found the sworn statement of the night manager who had worked the desk that evening, and I watched him read it, and I watched his voice come out of him almost against his will, reading aloud into the cold air over his father’s grave.

“The guest in room 408,” he read, “was Felicia Stanford.