“Yes. Absolutely. All I’ve ever wanted was to start a family with you. I love you so much, Sarah. I’m sorry for what I’ve done and I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t. Just know that I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. You’re my wife. You’re my everything. You’re my forever.”

“Kelly was pregnant,” Sarah blurts out.

My mouth drops open.

“She was four weeks along.” There’s not an ounce of emotion in her voice. It’s as if she were reading from a list. “According to the DNA results, you were the father.”

Those words stab me in my gut and rip out my heart. I mouth, What? but the words don’t come out. I stand up from my chair too quickly. The chair falls backward, hitting the ground with a thud. I drop my head into my hands and pull at my hair. I let out a loud howl. I cry for my unborn child. I know how this looks. Pregnant dead mistress. I try to compose myself, regain control of my emotions. Deep breaths, in and out.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” She looks up at me.

“You think I knew? How could you think I knew about this?” I pace back and forth, throwing my hands up. “How the fuck could you think that?” I ask again, this time with more bite and anger.

“How could I think you loved me, or you were faithful to me? How could I think when you said ‘I do’ that you meant it? How could I think that you and I were going to spend the rest of our lives together? How could I think that you weren’t fucking and impregnating some other women behind my back? How the hell could I think any of that, Adam?”

By the time she’s done screaming, she’s half standing, and for a second, I think she’s going to lunge at me—but she doesn’t. She straightens her jacket and sits down on her chair. She smooths out her hair with the palm of her hand and calms herself.

I take my seat in front of her. She’s right. I have no right to be angry at her for thinking that I knew Kelly was pregnant. I don’t know how Sarah and I are going to get through this, and if we do, I’m not convinced we’re going to get through it together. “Now what?” I ask.

“I’m going to look into Scott. I’m going to try to find out who sent the photo to you and who the third set of DNA belongs to. I need you to get your story straight.”

“It’s not a story.”

“You know what I mean,” she huffs.