A heavy pounding started in my chest. “Did you tell them about the shirt?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No. I told them you weren’t home yet.”

I looked up sharply. “Why would you protect me?”

Emily gave a sad, brittle smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I protected myself. If the police drag my husband out of this house in handcuffs, my whole life burns down too.”

Then the doorbell rang.

Not a polite tap. A firm, official press that echoed through the house.

Emily and I looked at each other in complete silence.

Whoever stood outside that door already knew enough to show up here at midnight. And if they knew one thing I didn’t, my affair might be the least dangerous secret inside this house.

Emily reached the front door before I did, but she didn’t open it immediately. She turned back toward me, and in that short pause I noticed something I had missed all evening. She wasn’t calm. She was controlled. There was a difference. Calm came naturally. Control required effort. Her hands were steady only because she was forcing them to be.

When she finally opened the door, Detective Ross stood there with another officer, both in plain clothes, both wearing the grim patience of people accustomed to entering homes at the worst possible moments. Ross was broad-shouldered, probably in his fifties, with a legal pad tucked under his arm.

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