“Ask your sister,” my husband whispered, his fork hovering inches from his plate. He did not look at me. He just stared at the small screen of my laptop where the video was still playing.

The little blue light on the cheap dashcam beside his plate blinked once, like it was mocking both of us.

I felt a dull ache behind my ribs, the kind of heavy coldness that makes it hard to draw a breath. We had been married for thirty-one years. I thought I knew every habit, every sigh, and every secret he had. I was completely wrong.

Let me back up. I need to explain the seventy-nine dollars. I bought the camera at the AutoZone on Route 4. The cashier, a young kid named Tyler with a bad cold, handed me the receipt. I still have it in my kitchen drawer under the coupon organizer.

I bought it because David said someone had scratched his fender at the mill. He had been working late. That was his story. For thirteen months, he came home at nine or ten, smelling like the paper mill and cheap peppermint gum. I believed him because that is what you do after three decades.

You do not ask questions. You just keep the pot roast warm in the oven. But then the grocery money started disappearing. Our budget was strictly one hundred and twenty dollars a week. I clipped coupons. I shopped at Aldi. Yet, our joint checking account was constantly short by sixty or seventy dollars.

It did not make sense to me. I installed the little black plastic camera behind his rearview mirror while he was sleeping. It took me five minutes. The adhesive pad smelled like cheap vinegar.

I did not think I would find anything. I thought I was just being a paranoid old woman who watched too many television dramas.

The first recording I downloaded was from a Tuesday. I sat on our bed with my laptop, the house completely quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. I clicked play, expecting to see the highway to the mill. Instead, he drove right past the exit.

He drove twenty-two miles out of town, past the county line, to a small gravel road near the lake. The camera captured the green shutters of a small cottage. A woman was standing on the porch. She was wearing a yellow sweater. I did not recognize her at all.

I watched him get out of his truck. He walked up the steps and kissed her. It was not a quick cheek kiss. It was the exact same long, slow kiss he gave me on the steps of the Methodist church in 1993, back when we had nothing but a rented apartment.