At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap

I pulled the blue folder from the locked cabinet.

The deed.

The original purchase contract.

The mortgage payoff certificate.

The prenup.

The separate property declaration.

Tax receipts.

Notarized records.

Everything.

When I returned, the officers were standing beneath our wedding photo in the foyer.

In the picture, Rodrigo was laughing with his face turned toward mine. I remembered that laugh. I remembered thinking I had been chosen by it.

Funny how photographs can become evidence of someone else’s costume.

I handed the folder to the older officer.

He read carefully.