She confronted Brett that evening when he returned from work, documents in hand, laying them on the table between them. Her voice stayed steady despite shaking fingers. She asked when he planned to tell her. The question hung in the air while the house listened, still, complicit in the dim kitchen light.
Brett went pale the moment he saw the papers, color draining from his face. His eyes moved quickly, calculating, then stalled. Was it guilt, fear, or both? It seemed this was complicated, planned, and dangerous in ways she did not yet understand. Had she ever understood him?