I was sorting the mail at the kitchen table when I saw the envelope from the insurance company. It looked ordinary enough, just like the notices we get every year for our policy. I opened it without thinking twice.

The amount was wrong. It showed a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar policy instead of our usual two hundred and fifty thousand. The beneficiary name listed a woman in Fayetteville. I read it twice before it sank in.

Richard was out in the garage like always, tinkering with that old truck. I didn’t say a word to him. I picked up the phone and called the agent we have used for years.

He answered on the second ring. I told him about the notice and asked what was going on. He got quiet for a second. Then he said Richard had come in nineteen years ago and asked for two policies on the same day. Same medical exam and everything. He wanted them kept separate for estate planning.

I asked him what estate. We have a house and that truck and not much else. The agent said Richard was firm about it and didn’t want it mentioned to me. I hung up and sat there with the phone in my hand.

The next morning I went through the old files in the den. I found both applications tucked behind some tax papers. Same date, same signature, same exam. One listed me and the other listed that woman in Fayetteville. I put them in my purse and waited until Tuesday.

I drove over to the agent’s office with both papers. The place smelled like old coffee and paper. I set them side by side on his desk and asked him to explain.

He looked at the papers and then at me. “Richard said it was private business,” he told me. “He didn’t want you worried about it.”

I asked who the woman was. He said it was someone from before we met. Richard had felt he owed her something and wanted her taken care of if anything happened to him. The agent wouldn’t give me her full name. He just kept saying it was old business.

I drove home slower than usual. The whole way I kept thinking about the trips Richard used to take by himself. He always said they were for work. One time he came back with a Fayetteville postcard in his jacket pocket. I had asked him about it and he said a client gave it to him. I never thought twice about it until now.

When Richard came in that evening I had the papers on the kitchen table. He stopped in the doorway and looked at them. “What is all this,” he said.