If the flash went off, he’d wake them. If it didn’t, it’d be too dark—no proof. He took it anyway.
Robert went downstairs to unpack. Morning was coming, when he knew she’d kick the other guy out, forgetting everything before her second coffee.
Robert went outside and paced the clammy, pre-morning darkness until the truck that wasn’t his drove away.
He slipped indoors.
“Baby, you’re home!” She hugged Robert, the one detail the sickness hadn’t kicked from her brain. “Are you crying?”
Days later, he framed the photo. “First of a new series,” he told her.
“What’s it called?”