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mess, because while you’re cleaning someone’s making some more.
But, for the time being at least, I was on the verge of having a clean bedroom.
    I moved for the bag, gripping the thick shoulder strap and
half lifted, half dragged it into the bathroom. Setting it down by the still
open hamper, I crouched down and began tugging each item of clothing from the
bag. Two dress shirts went straight into the basket. A white T-shirt followed
and then there were three boxer shorts. Black dress pants and a pair of jeans
dwelt at the bottom and, sure enough, both had change and receipts stuffed in
every available pocket.
    “For God’s sake,” I muttered pulling out all the junk and
chucking it temporarily in the bottom of the bag. As I did that, my eyes
flashed down at the black polyester lining that was speckled with tiny balls of
white fluff. My gaze caught something shiny. Releasing their grip on Paul’s
jeans, my fingers delved into the bag. I tried to tell myself that it was just
a little scrap of foil; it couldn’t possibly be what it looked like; what I
thought it was. Grasping it with my forefinger and thumb, I slowly pulled it
free from its hiding place. It wasn’t just the tiny edge I had been able to
see. It was a full square with a clear circular indent. The shiny, blue wrapper
had been ripped at the top and its contents removed.
    The hand holding the condom wrapper began to tremble, as the
implications of it settled painfully in my chest. My mouth and throat went
instantly dry, while palpitations caused my eardrums to throb with each deep,
pound of my heart. Paul and I hadn’t used condoms since our engagement; he’d
never liked them, we both wanted a family anyway and, shortly after Lizzie was
born, I’d started taking the pill. There was no need for any other form of
contraception.
    The object in my hand could mean only one thing. God knows I
tried to find other explanations. Most of them were wild, nonsensical excuses;
anything to avoid the truth that was staring me in the face. But there was no
way to avoid it. Paul had an affair while he’d been away.
     Dropping the wrapper and swiveling toward the tub, bile
suddenly rose in my throat. I dry heaved, nothing more than saliva dribbling
from my bottom lip while my throat burned. I remained that way for several
minutes, my empty stomach continuing to retch.
    Eventually, my insides stopped trying to turn themselves
inside out, but my heart still raced and my fingers tingled with a lack of
circulation. My knees beginning to feel numb, I forced myself up, regretting it
almost instantly when my head pounded and I felt a wave of dizziness. 
Nevertheless, I pulled myself around to the sink and turned the cold faucet on
full. I let the stream flow noisily for a second, while I looked at myself in
the mirror. My usually bright complexion was deathly pale and my blue eyes
gazed blankly ahead. Unable to bear the sight of myself, I stuck my head
beneath the water’s stream, vigorously rinsing my face before filling my mouth
with several large gulps.
    When the feeling of nausea returned with a vengeance, I quickly
turned off the water and slipped down onto the cold tiles, my legs collapsing
beneath me. My back propped up against the edge of the tub was the only thing
keeping me sitting upright. Never, either before or since, have I experienced
such a sudden and debilitating sense of loss and disorientation.
    It was an hour or more before I was finally able to drag
myself up from the bathroom floor. By that point, I was still trembling, but it
was no longer with fear. The victim mentality had been replaced with anger; a
seething rage. Questions swirled around my frenzied brain, and I was determined
to get answers.

  Chapter Five
    Proof
    T hrough an enraged red mist, I wasn’t thinking
clearly. I flew back into the bedroom and started tearing the room apart. I
began by ripping out the drawers of Paul’s bedside table, and tipping the
contents of them on the floor. His