That was the detail that should have slowed me down, if I had been capable of being slowed down.
A stranger.
If Wade were having an affair, surely I’d have caught at least a thread of her somewhere — a name mentioned once too often, a face at a party, something.
Affairs leave a residue; that’s how people get caught.
But this woman had left no residue in my life at all, which meant either that my husband was a far more careful liar than any evidence in ten years had ever suggested, or that she was not what my panicking mind had decided she was.
The rational reading was right there, available, reaching for my sleeve.