I tried to think. The box. We’d opened it maybe twice in twenty years. Deed to the house. Some bonds. My dad’s watch. I couldn’t think what she meant.

“I found it last Tuesday,” she said. “So I added one line to those papers because of it.” Her voice dropped low. “It isn’t four hundred and twenty thousand anymore.”

I’m not a good man. I want that clear. I sat there scared, but underneath the scared I was already doing math, already trying to figure out how to save myself. Even then. That’s who I’d been the whole time, I think.

“Do you want me to tell you what you left in that box,” she said, leaning in, “or would you rather find out in front of the judge.”

I said tell me. I think I whispered it.

She let me sit a second longer. Then she said it.

“A second deed, Robert. The lake property. Bought June 2016. Your name and hers.”

I felt the blood leave my face and I’m not going to pretend it didn’t. I’d forgotten. God help me, I had actually forgotten. Eight months I’d been with that woman and somewhere in there I’d put a down payment on a place by the water and tucked the paperwork in our box like it was nothing. Like Diane would never look.

“It’s been sitting in our marital property the whole time,” she said, almost kind. “Which makes it mine to split. So that’s the new line. Not four-twenty.” She picked her napkin up off her lap and set it on the table. “Seven hundred and ten.”

She stood. Got her coat off the back of the chair while I sat there with my untouched shrimp.

“Happy anniversary,” she said. Not mean. Just done.

She left the key right there on the cloth. I haven’t called the lawyer she gave me the card for. I haven’t called my kids. I haven’t done anything but sit at this kitchen table for three days holding a little brass key, thinking about a turkey sandwich I ate standing up eight years ago, sure I was the smart one.

The thing I keep landing on is the last thing she said before she stood up. I’d asked her, stupid, “Can we talk about this.” Like there was a we.

She zipped her coat. “There’s no we, Robert. There’s a number.” She pushed the bread basket an inch toward me, like she was tidying up. “You should eat. It’ll get worse cold.”

Then she did something that’s stuck worse than any of it. She leaned down and kissed my forehead. Same spot. Same way I’d kissed hers that night I came home smelling like Route 4.

“That’s for the turkey sandwich,” she said.

I can still feel it. Right there above my eyebrow. Three days now and I keep touching it.

Seven hundred and ten thousand. A key I can’t bring myself to use. And a forehead that won’t stop burning.