Chapter 5 - Gathering Evidence
At 7:30 the next morning, I made coffee.
Ethan entered the kitchen wearing sweatpants and the expression of a man expecting an apology.
His eyes immediately went to my left hand.
Bare.
“Still doing this?”
I poured coffee.
“Yes.”
He opened the refrigerator.
“Rachel put you up to it?”
“No.”
“She hates Vanessa.”
“Rachel barely knows Vanessa.”
“She was glaring at her all night.”
“Most people were.”
He shut the refrigerator harder than necessary.
“You’re turning one stupid joke into some massive betrayal.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Where were you September fourteenth?”
His expression didn’t change.
That was useful.
“What?”
“September fourteenth.”
“How would I know?”
“You were meeting a client.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Which client?”
Now he paused.
Tiny.
Half a second.
But there it was.
“NorthBridge.”
I nodded.
NorthBridge was in Milwaukee.
“Okay.”
He studied me.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I picked up my coffee.
He followed me with his eyes.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“Drinking coffee.”
“No. This.”
He pointed at my bare hand.
I looked down as if I had forgotten.
“I’m deciding whether I still want to wear a symbol of something my husband treats like a technicality.”
His face hardened.
“That’s unfair.”
“Maybe.”
I walked away.
Behind me, Ethan said something I didn’t expect.
“You’re going to regret making this bigger than it is.”
I stopped.
Turned.
He looked angry.
But underneath the anger was something else.
Fear.
It disappeared quickly.
I smiled.
“Then it should be very easy for you to prove how small it is.”
For the first time since dinner, Ethan had no answer.
I spent Saturday doing ordinary things.
Laundry.
Groceries.
A client revision.
I watered the rosemary plant over the kitchen sink.
I answered emails.
And quietly, methodically, I reconstructed six months of my husband’s life.
I wasn’t looking for adultery.
That distinction mattered.
People who decide what they expect to find have a remarkable ability to turn everything into evidence.
I wanted facts.
The facts were strange.
Ethan had withdrawn $4,000 in cash over four months.
Not impossible.
But unusual.
He had driven into Indiana three times on weekdays.
He had a recurring Thursday calendar block labeled BELL CONSULTING.
There was no Bell Consulting among his firm’s publicly listed clients.
Then I found Vanessa’s professional website.
She ran a boutique event and branding agency.
Her company registration listed a mailing address in Chicago.
But an old cached business directory showed something different.
Bell Avenue.
Same building number as her current office.
Bell.
Consulting.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe not.
At 4:12 p.m., Ethan left to “clear his head.”
I watched his car disappear.
Then I opened the drawer beside his desk.
I had no intention of digging through every receipt.
I didn’t need to.
The envelope was sitting on top.
Cream paper.
No return address.
Inside was a handwritten card.
E—
Thursday is confirmed. Same place. Don’t be late this time.
V.
No romance.
No hearts.
No confession.
But the familiarity made my skin cold.
May you like
I photographed it.
Put it back exactly where I found it.
