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surprise, she accepted. I had renewed hope. She attended for four months. Then, right before Christmas, without any warning, she bowed out, saying she didn’t have time to continue. A couple of months later—in February of this year—she quit her job with In Step. I’d tried to call her a few times after that but hadn’t reached her. Nor had she responded to the messages I’d left on her voice mail.
    Now I knew why.
    Uneasiness churned in my belly.
    Brad stepped into the room, drawing my attention. His face looked haggard. He seemed to have aged several years since the weekend.
    Without looking at me, he asked, “Did you set the DVR to record the program?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI might need to refer to it later.” His gaze met mine. “For legal reasons.”
    I picked up the remote and held it toward him.
    Brad settled onto the opposite end of the sofa. “Is your women’s group meeting at someone else’s home tonight?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe. I left it up to them.”Wherever they were, they were probably watching Channel 5.
    â€œKat, we’ll have to talk about . . . whatever we see tonight.”
    Looking at the muted television, I nodded. He was right, but I wished he weren’t. I didn’t want to talk about any of this. I wanted it to go away. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find things as they’d been, as they were supposed to be.
    An image flashed in my mind. The annual In Step Foundation Christmas party, two Decembers ago. Brad standing near the Christmas tree, Nicole handing him wrapped packages to give to the employees. Her smile, a certain look in her eyes as she spoke to him. The way he smiled in return.
    It’s not true. I won’t believe it’s true.
    On the television screen, the host of Our View appeared. A second later, the sound came on, and I heard him announcing the program’s agenda for the night. The segment with Nicole Schubert would be last.
    This promised to be the longest thirty minutes of my life.

    Brad and I didn’t move or speak throughout the program. With each tick of the clock, I grew more tense. The waiting might be the death of me.
    And then it was on. There was Greta St. James, speaking to the camera, reviewing the history of In Step, talking about the humanitarian award, talking about Brad, talking about us.
    â€œRespected members of the community . . . very public figure . . . the growth of In Step in recent years . . .” There was an odd droning in my ears. I tried to concentrate on what the reporter said, but the words seemed disjointed and difficult to understand.
    Images on the screen continued to change. A shot of our house. A shot of our church. A shot of the Henderson Building. One of Brad with the mayor. Another of him with his construction crew outside one of the remodels. And finally, there was Nicole, looking composed as she sat on her living room sofa.
    â€œ. . . Our affair lasted more than a year . . .”
    I wasn’t sure how long she’d been talking before those words reached through the haze in my head. A minute. Five minutes.
    â€œ. . . I loved Brad, but I could no longer be a party to his hypocrisy . . .”
    Like pages in a photograph album, more images flipped through my mind. Nicole, leaning close to Brad at the table when she’d been our guest for dinner. Nicole, always the last to leave after Bible study, waiting until Brad emerged from his den so she could say good night to us both. Nicole, looking flushed, sitting in Brad’s office when I stopped by one afternoon.
    The television fell silent. The screen went dark. The program was over. What had I missed?
    Slowly, I turned to look at Brad.“She was in love with you. All that time I was trying to be her friend, she was in love with you.”
    â€œShe thought she was in love with me.”
    Was that a confession of guilt? The words I never thought I’d ask were