A selfie of them. They were on a boat. Harrison was shirtless, wearing sunglasses, holding a beer. He looked younger. Carefree. Emily was in a tiny bikini, pressing her chest against his arm, laughing with her mouth wide open.
She swiped.
A photo of a bedroom. Not their bedroom. A rustic cabin suite with a fireplace. There was a bucket of champagne on the table.
She swiped.
This one broke her.
It was a video. Sarah pressed play.
The camera was propped up on a dresser. It showed Harrison and Emily in the bed. They were under the sheets, but it was obvious what was happening. They were giggling, whispering.
"Say it," Emily’s voice came from the speaker, tinny andhigh. "Say who you'd rather be with."
Harrison, kissing her neck, mumbled, "I'm with you. I'm right here."
"But who is better?" Emily pressed, grabbing his face. "Me or the Architect?"
Harrison laughed. A cruel, dismissive sound. "Stop. You know it’s you. It’s always been the fun ones, right?"
The video ended.
Sarah sat in the silence of the office. The screen went black as the auto-lock engaged, reflecting her own face back at her. Her eyes were red, her skin splotchy.
He hadn't just cheated. He had taken a vacation from their marriage. He had spent their joint account money to take her sister to a lake house while Sarah was sitting in seminars learning how to maximize square footage for their retirement home.
The "work project" was Emily. The "bad clam" was Emily. The "late nights" were Emily.
Every memory of the last year was a lie. Every time she had kissed him, she had been kissing a liar.
Sarah stood up slowly. A cold, dangerous calm settled over her, replacing the tears. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't a "slip up." This was a campaign.
She walked to the printer. She plugged the iPad into her laptop with a white cable.
She didn't smash the iPad. That was too emotional.
Instead, she hit Export. She downloaded every photo. She saved every text thread as a PDF.
She sent the file to Mr. Vance with a subject line: Exhibit A through Z.
And then she took a deep breath, letting relief wash over her body.
Chapter Six
Harrison
The motel air conditioner rattled, a dying mechanical wheeze that matched the noise in Harrison’s head. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank TV screen, but he wasn't seeing the room. He was seeing the timeline of his life, trying to pinpoint exactly where the infection had started.
It shouldn't have ended like this. On paper, Harrison and Sarah were inevitable.
They had met five years ago in a coffee shop in downtown Chicago. He was a Project Manager for a logistics firm; she was a Junior Architect. He had spilled his Americano; she had offered him a napkin. It was boring, sweet, and perfect.
Sarah was safety. She was the warm light in the window after a long drive. She was brilliant, meticulous, and kind. They spent weekends hiking, evenings cooking elaborate meals, and nights talking about the future. They were the couple their friends envied—the ones who never fought, who finished each other’s sentences. He loved her. God, he loved her. She was the anchor that kept him from drifting.
But the ocean he was drifting on had a shark in it.
The complication had a name: Emily.
