“Nothing, ma’am.”
Ruth brushed past her, but Abigail noticed one detail that stayed with her:
Ruth’s hands were shaking.
That night Abigail made a decision. Michael deserved the truth.
The next morning, before she could gather the courage to say it, Michael surprised her by asking first.
“Have you seen anything in this house that concerns you?” he said.
It was clear from his face that he was already afraid of the answer.
So Abigail told him. Carefully. Plainly. She told him about Ruth coming home at dawn. About the dark car. About the man. About the way Ruth had leaned toward him at the gate.
When she finished, Michael sat very still.
Then he asked, “Did she look happy?”
The question pierced Abigail more than anything else.
She thought of Ruth at the car window, glowing in a way she never glowed inside the house.
“She looked like a different person,” Abigail said gently. “Than the one I see here.”
Michael looked away toward the window.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I imagine she would.”
After that, something inside him began to wake up.
He hired a private investigator. He called his lawyer, Mr. Collins, a careful, quiet man who had worked with him for years. Michael stopped hoping there was another explanation. He started gathering proof.
