The first photograph in the metal box showed my fiancé proposing to another woman with the ring I’d been wearing for seven days.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
Then I found the second photograph.
Peter stood beside the same woman on a beach, his left arm bare.
There was no motorcycle scar.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
Instead, a woman’s face covered most of his forearm.
Her face.