Cecily asked me to help her prove she wasn’t losing her mind. That what she’d been feeling for months—the voice she kept trying to silence—wasn’t madness, but truth demanding to be seen.
She didn’t even have to ask; I would’ve done it anyway.
The first thing I did was hire a PI to keep an eye on him. It didn’t take long to get real evidence. After that, I sent a bait link for a designer-brand sale straight to hisassistant.
Ceci installed an app I’d developed on Colin’s phone herself.
“I looked for messages, photos, emails… there was nothing,” she told me. “Could I really be that wrong? His password’s still our wedding date…”
Even I didn’t expect her to find something so blatant, or for him to be stupid enough to change his phone password after all this time.
But that’s the thing about what you try to erase. It always leaves traces. And I followed every single one of them. Every. Single. One.
From exchanged texts to cross-checking charges on his personal and corporate cards, I tracked every purchase that could be tied back to the affair.
If they were in the same place—grabbing coffee, ordering room service, having dinner at a hotel, renting a room for an hour or two on one of his so-called business trips—I kept a record of it all.
The more evidence I gathered, the harder it became to hand it over to Cecily. Knowing was one thing. Making her know was another. When I knew I couldn’t hold it back any longer, I started giving her crumbs.
Colin’s geolocation, cross-checked with his mistress’s, placed them in the same locations for months—at hours no one could mistake for innocent. Photos of him entering and leaving her building. Text messages showing he was on his way.
By the week of his trip, I knew I couldn’t keep it from her anymore. I called her Tuesday night, and we agreed to meet the next day.
I showed her everything and watched my friend literally fall to her knees, the evidence trembling in her hands. Some of itmade her sick… literally. I drove her home that day and stayed with the kids while she went to her room to rest.
I left there at midnight and that son of a bitch hadn’t shown up yet.
But I was tracking him. I knew he was less than ten minutes from the house, coming straight from his mistress’s place. I didn’t want to risk running into him, didn’t want a confrontation while Cecily was being forced to swallow the full weight of the truth.
And now I have to break my friend’s heart a little more.
I step into the sunroom, making noise so I don’t startle her. I check the living room, the stairs, then close the door behind me.
“We need to talk,” I say, my voice low.
Cecily folds in on herself, burying her face against her knee.
“If it’s more of what you found… save it for tomorrow,” she says, her voice muffled. “I can’t. I’m trying to focus on the research I have to finish. That article’s never going to get written.”
I run my hand through her hair.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask the editor to hand the piece off to someone else? Maybe you need more time.”
She shakes her head, hard.
“No. What I need is to keep my mind busy. Getting out of bed’s been a battle for weeks. But now that I can’t afford to pretend nothing will change, it’s worse.”
I take a slow breath.
I hate that son of a bitch—that small, shriveled-dick excuse for a man.
Knowing I can’t stall any longer, I say, “Colin was here earlier. Right after dinner, when you went to the family room with Alicia.”
“What did he want?”
I roll my eyes when she looks up at me. “To convince you it was all one big conspiracy theory and that I forged the evidence, maybe?”
Her expression doesn’t change. Normally, my sarcasm earns at least a hint of a smile.
