"Yeah, of course." He was already reaching for it on the side table, closing whatever he'd been watching. Sports highlights, probably. "Password's still the same."
He brought it over, set it on the island in front of me, then leaned against the counter on his side, comfortable. Home.
"You eat yet?" he asked. "I got extra spring rolls."
"Not hungry."
"You sure? You barely touched breakfast this morning."
"Just tired," I said. "Long day, long week."
I pulled the flash drive out from my pocket, plugged it in, then booted up the file. Queued it to exactly the right moment and paused on a frame that showed the exam table, the angle that captured everything.
I kept the screen facing me.
Matt’s phone lit up inches from my hand. Once, then twice, the buzzing insistent against the granite.
Matt glanced down, but didn't reach for it. "Probably work stuff. I'll check it in a minute."
"It's Angela," I said, watching the screen flash again. Four missed calls now.
"Oh." He straightened slightly. "That's weird."
Something flickered across his face, so fast I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching for it. A hesitation. The briefest tension around his eyes before his expression smoothed back into casual confusion. On any other night, I wouldn't have noticed. Angela called him sometimes, usually when she needed something urgent and couldn't get a hold of me right away. A client emergency, a scheduling conflict that needed immediate attention. Small talk between people connected only through me.
But tonight I was looking.
And tonight, I saw the tell.
"She seems worried," I said, and slid his phone across the granite countertop. It skidded to a stop inches from his hand. Matt stared at it, the screen lighting up again with Angela's name, the notification count climbing.
"Okay," he said slowly, drawing the word out like he was trying to figure out the shape of something he couldn't quite see yet. His hand hovered over the phone but didn't pick it up. "That's... yeah, that's weird."
I waited as he glanced at me, the phone, then back at me.
"You want me to...?"
"Answer it," I said, my voice the same I used when a frightened animal needed soothing. "She clearly needs to talk to you."
There was something in his expression now, a question forming that he didn't know how to ask.
His fingers closed around the phone. The second he lifted it to his ear, the exact moment I heard him say "Angela?", I turned the laptop screen around.
And pressed play.
I couldn't make out Angela's words through the phone, but I didn't need to. The tone said everything. High-pitched andfrantic. The kind of panic that comes when you realize the trap has already sprung and you're still inside it.
Matt's eyes were on me when I turned the screen. He was still confused, still trying to piece together why his wife was acting strange, why Angela was calling five times in a row, why the air in the room felt wrong.
Then his gaze dropped to the laptop.
I watched his face change.
It happened in stages. First, the confusion deepening: a slight furrow between his brows as his brain tried to make sense of the black-and-white footage. Then recognition, sharp and sudden, his eyes widening just a fraction. And, finally, the color draining from his face as understanding hit.
On the screen, he was kissing Angela against the exam table.
On the phone, Angela was still talking, her voice a tinny spiral of desperation.
