He's heard the rumors. Of course he has. They seem to be the talk of the office. But he doesn't want to believe them. No, he really doesn't. Because they can't possibly be true, right? She wouldn't do that to him. Tildeathdouspart. That was their vow. She grew up in a family where a person's word was everything, so it's not like her to break a promise.

The more a thing is heard, though, the more likely it is to be believed. And he's been hearing this gossip for so long. What if it's true? What is he going to do then? He doesn't have a plan for this. Because really, who plans for something like this? No one. But maybe they should.

He's going to confront her that night. Lay it all out on the table. Get some answers. Learn the truth. He deserves to know what's going on. He deserves to not be lied to. He deserves to not be suspicious.

Turns out, he doesn't even have to ask her. He gets home that night, and he hears noises from the bedroom. Doesn't even have to go investigate. He's heard those sounds before…too many times. So, the rumors are true. Or, at least, half-true. Maybe not to the extent that he's heard.

So he walks out of their apartment, because he doesn't want to hear this. Goes to the bar. He wants to get smashed. Doesn't want to see someone take The Walk of Shame. That would be the last straw, and he doesn't want to get angry with her when it's possible that they might be able to fix things.

Staggers home at 2 AM. Fumbles to unlock the door, stumbles inside, leaves the lights off. Totters to the bedroom, falls in a heap on the bed. He lands on a piece of paper. Pulls it out from under him, tries to make it out in the moonlight.

Went out with my friends. Be back tomorrow.

In his drunken state, he doesn't believe it. Whatever she wants him to believe, right? But he can't do anything about it now. Doesn't even know where she is. So he falls asleep.

His hangover actually isn't that bad in the morning. Manageable, at least. He searches the room for a pair of clean pants and a clean shirt. He finally finds some, throws them on the bed. Just about to start getting changed. Then, he notices that the clothes were covering a notebook.

It's his room, so he doesn't feel that opening the notebook is an invasion of privacy. But oh, how he wishes he hadn't. Because only a few pages are filled, but those few pages break his heart. It's a list of men – many of which he knows, and a few of which are even pretty good mates of his. The title of the list is F.W.B. List. He's not an idiot. He knows what F.W.B. means. He wishes he didn't, though, because then this wouldn't hurt so much.

Turns out, she really was with her friends. But she still ended up in another man's bed. She awoke that morning, confused as to her location, to a tapping on the window. Climbs out of the stranger's bed, opens the window, and is met with the site of her sister's owl. She takes the letter, pets the owl on the head, and sends it away. She closes the window with one hand, and opens the letter.

She leaves the random's bedroom, slipping on her clothes. Exits the apartment as quietly as she can, and starts reading the letter as she walks down the street. But, she stops in her tracks, right there in the middle of the crowded road. Stunned. Knows, in her heart, that this is all her fault.

Your husband's dead. Suicide. So where the hell are you?