I froze, drenched in sweat. My wife’s last confession wasn’t a consolation, but rather the gateway to hell.
I sank to the floor, the notebook in my trembling hands. The smell of dampness and decay mingled with a fear that constricted my chest.
Inside were disorganized notes, some hastily written, others strangely neat. They all recounted a period I was unaware of: ten years earlier, when my wife became embroiled in a shady business involving a powerful group in our city.
