But one can always hope. David is wearing ridiculously short shorts for a man his age, no doubt picked out by Kylie. She’s on a pink mat to his left, in an all-white, skintight getup. She’s not “normal,” she’s a show-off. As for David, this whole yoga thing is new. Just like his haircut, his waistline and where his loyalties lie. They don’t touch each other here, not in front of all of these yogis. They act as if they’re just friends taking yoga class together: just a couple of buddies doing downward dog.

Mary’s death seems to have accelerated their romance, added some sort of tragic fuel to his need to escape from me and our life together. As if Mary’s death ended our family. But that is not the case. His actions destroyed our family, our marriage. And I will make him stop.

David and Kylie have been taking this class for six months, at least that’s when I found out about their standing date. Because even though this studio is two beach towns away, and I’ve been grieving, and I don’t have any friends, I’m not stupid. My husband would never take a yoga class, and yet a package showed up in his credit card transactions. A package for two.

Satisfied that they’re busy, I walk behind the studio to the lot where we’ve all parked. Cozy. There’s David’s black Tesla. And a few spots down, Kylie’s brand-new white Audi with its temporary plates. She’s only twenty-eight. She shouldn’t be driving an Audi, but she is. And I know her sugar daddy. I touch its smooth, new finish. I look around quickly, and slip the tracking device under the front right wheel well. The magnetic case grabs on to the metal with a satisfying click. Without access to her cell phone, this is the next best thing.

I open my car door, conveniently parked next to the white Audi. In case there is a camera back here, which I doubt, I was simply bending to pick up my keys. I resist the urge to do something more with my keys to Kylie’s pretty car and back my car out of the parking space. I have more work to do.

Assuming they both survive yoga class stroke-free, they will grab a pressed juice at the shop next to the studio. Then, depending on their mood, they’ll either grab a to-go meal from the sandwich shop or step into their favorite little Italian bistro. You know, the one I ordered in. It’s so romantic it makes me want to throw something. But I won’t. I clench the steering wheel and turn onto Kylie’s street.