“We need to talk about the night Kelly was murdered.” She flips her notepad to a blank page and puts her pen to the paper. Her eyes return to me, and she finally catches sight of the aftermath of my beating from Scott. My right eye is closed completely. My skin is newly colored with purple, black, yellow, and red. My left cheek is swollen and filled with stitches. My lips are split in several spots, and my teeth are stained as if I had just consumed a bottle of wine, thanks to the blood that pooled in my mouth.

Her eyes give a flicker of sympathy as a part of her must have thought for a moment, My poor husband, but this quickly disappears and instead her eyes focus and pierce me.

What is she thinking now? Why is she even helping me? “What do you want to know?” I lean back in the chair.

“Everything.” She narrows her eyes. I know from an attorney’s perspective, she really wants to know everything, but as my wife, she shouldn’t have to hear any of this. But maybe she wants to know. She wants to know how truly disgusting and dishonorable I am. “Are you sure?” Because I’m not sure this is a good idea anymore.

She slaps her pen down and glares at me. “Adam. I told you yesterday. You need to be completely honest with me. What you did in terms of your infidelity doesn’t matter, nor what you did to me.”

“Okay. I just don’t want to hurt you.” I reach my hand out for hers.

She pulls away. “You already have.” She picks up her pen and writes the date and time on the piece of paper. “What time did Kelly Summers arrive at the lake house?”

“Sometime after 5pm.”

“Take me through what happened after she arrived.”

I tell her everything—how we drank scotch, fucked multiple times, how rough I was with her, how much I enjoyed it, how much Kelly enjoyed it, how she was begging for more without even uttering a word, how I left her in the middle of the night to come home, the note I wrote, everything.

Sarah doesn’t make any gesture, sound, or remark to let me know how displeased she is with me. To let me know how much she hates me. And then I wonder, Does she even care? Does she care that I was cheating on her? Or is she trying to be strong? Is she trying to be professional? I can’t tell. I can’t read her. She’s my wife, and at this moment, I don’t even know her. The look she gives me is cold and distant. Her movements are almost robotic. Her eyes are clear and calculating.

“Wait a minute.” She circles a note on her paper and pulls me from my thoughts. “What time did you two fall asleep?”