Natalie's hand closed around the phone. “You're not going through my messages.”
“I haven't touched your phone. I'm asking about the message that's lighting up in front of both of us.”
“Ryan is worried about you.”
“Worried about whether I signed something?”
She looked at me without speaking.
I stood up. My knees felt surprisingly steady. “Did Ryan know about your trip before I did?”
“Daniel—”
“That's a yes or no question.”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
“A little while.”
“How long?”
She took a breath. “A few weeks.”
I thought of the dinner at our house two weeks earlier. Ryan had brought a bottle of red wine, talked football with my father over speakerphone, and complimented Natalie on the food. He had walked with me to the driveway afterward and said how lucky I was that our marriage still seemed easy. I remembered him looking back toward the lit kitchen window, where Natalie was rinsing dishes.
“Did he help you plan it?” I asked.
Her expression hardened. “I made my own decisions.”