While cleaning out the hall closet, I reached into the pocket of my husband Denton’s old coat—one I hadn’t seen him wear in years. What I pulled out stopped me cold.
A folded note.
Not in his handwriting.
Just one line: “This is between us. No one else can know.”
And a phone number.
My breath caught. Rational thoughts tried to take hold, but panic whispered darker possibilities. Was Denton hiding something? A secret life? A betrayal?
I sat with it for hours, torn between confronting him and doing nothing. In the end, curiosity—and fear—won out. I dialed the number. A calm, clipped voice answered. All it said was an address. Nothing more.
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