When I get to the footage of me heading to the dock in my nightgown, I switch to Paul’s email and send the log-in information to Sam. While I’m there, I scan the subject lines in his inbox. New product notices, sales pitches, detailed back-and-forths about current and future projects. Except for a couple of junk ads for penis enlargement surgery, nothing sticks out as unusual. The mailboxes are organized just as meticulously as you’d expect from a guy like Paul, the projects listed by name and date, the contents separated into subfolders. I scroll through them, clicking on a folder marked Personal, but there’s not much here I don’t already know. His house, his health insurance and tax assessments. I back out and close the program.

The finder is more of the same. Work projects filed by address and dates, personal folders with copies of passports and tax reports. I’m about to move on when I spot it, a folder marked Katherine.

Something tight and icy-hot spirals across my scalp at the sight of Paul’s first wife’s name, a yellow folder of memories and who knows what else sitting on his hard drive. I hover the mouse over her name, wavering between dread and curiosity.

If I open this file, I can’t unsee what’s in it. I won’t be able to pretend I don’t know. There’s no going back from this.

And yet I’ve already reached the point of no return, haven’t I, simply by seeing her name on his hard drive. Even if I don’t look inside this folder, for the rest of my life I will wonder what’s in it, this digital mystery stashed on his laptop.

And that, somehow, feels even worse.

I click her name, and there are two subfolders, Legalities and Memories. I don’t know which one is scarier.

The first file contains pdf documents, filed by name and date. Her birth and death certificates, their marriage certificate, bank statements and tax returns. Her will is complicated, trusts and properties and a whole bunch of legalese I don’t understand, no list of assets other than that they all went to Paul. I back out and click the most recent bank statement, a portfolio summary from J.P. Morgan, and my eyes bulge at the amount. Before Katherine died, her investments had a market value of almost six million dollars.

Maybe this is why we don’t talk about money, because if we did, he’d have to tell me that the majority of his wealth came from a former swimmer who sank to the bottom of the lake she did laps in every summer morning. It’s a hard pill for even the most trusting, most gullible wife to swallow. No wonder Sam thinks the worst. If I didn’t know Paul so well, I might, too.