I wait, rigor mortis still. Minutes pass. I’m not going to sleep, not until I know what he is doing. I could always go check on him, walk through the house like I was getting a glass of water. But clomping my way downstairs would give him ample warning. Stealth is key. Slowly, I sit up and reach for my phone. It lights up the room when I touch it. I listen to the house for a few heartbeats, then turn and lower my feet to the carpet. I move gently, navigating by the dim glow of the phone screen. Through the door, sucking my stomach in so I don’t touch it. Then to the stairs and down on the balls of my feet. The air is cool, and I can hear the distant whir of his computer. He’s in his study. I creep towards the door, holding my breath. I’m suspended between flight and fight, compelled forward by a need to know, to understand what my husband is doing. It’s probably nothing, I’m sure it’s nothing. But how can I trust him after finding out he had been to that WeStay on Hillview Terrace? And why come to bed at all if he was just going to use his phone and get back up? I grip the handle and turn it so slowly that it doesn’t make a sound. Pressing inward, I feel weak as though all of my energy has been sapped by the cool door handle.

Cain is there, standing hunched before the computer in his pyjama pants, peering close to the right monitor, blocking it with the bulk of his bare back. On the left monitor I can see he has his emails open. Whatever is on that other screen has his full attention.

I move a little closer now. Stepping carefully, watching him. His right hand comes to his mouth, covers it and he leans closer still. I keep moving. Sidestepping to open up a view of the screen beyond his shoulder.