Louise was livid. She rushed over with a towel, pressing it against Bill's wound, pulling him into her arms like he was something precious.
"It's okay, Bill. I'm here."
Bill's eyes rimmed red, his voice thick with pitiful, choked-back sobs:
"It's my fault, Louise. I'm the one who upset him. Please don't blame him."
Even now, Bill was still playing the innocent martyr.
Louise held him tighter and whipped around to snarl at me:
"You're an unreasonable lunatic, Julian."
"I want a divorce."
"Fine. I agree."
My voice was flat. Not a ripple of emotion.
Louise froze, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily.
Under her stunned gaze, I turned and walked out of the room.
On the drive home, I contacted a private investigator.
My instructions were clear:
"Look into Louise Sullivan. The past five years—every movement, phone record, transaction, anything you can dig up. The more detailed, the better."
I opened the front door. My five-year-old son, Alvin Gilbert, was in the living room playing with his toys.
"Daddy, what's wrong?"
He looked up at my expression and asked with concern.
I smiled and ruffled his hair.
Looking closely, Alvin didn't really look like me. He resembled his mother—Louise—much more.