Out of nowhere, thousands of dollars had vanished from our accounts, swept away by “internal transfers” my husband Michael couldn’t explain.
His once-loving glances were now shifty and cold, and his late nights reeked of something far worse than work.
But Michael didn’t just drain our savings—he drained my patience and raised suspicion to something bigger… He thought he could leave me in the dark, treat me like an afterthought. He had no idea who he was messing with.
I wasn’t just going to take back what was mine—I was going to destroy him. Every lie he told, every dollar he stole, every moment he stole from our daughter’s future—I’d make him pay for all of it.
Mark. My. Word.
When Trust Takes a Midnight Walk
Numbers on the digital clock blared 2:17 AM. Where the heck was he? He usually snored beside me by now, but the bed was cold.
I rolled over, my fingers brushing the empty space, the sheets still crisp. An icy finger of dread traced my spine. It wasn’t like him, this disappearing act. Lately, he’d been…off. Distracted. Like he was living somewhere else, in his head, and I was just a prop in his play.
Grabbing my phone, I checked his location. Off. Again. The third time this week. I swung my legs out of bed, the hardwood floor cold against my bare feet. My mind raced. Bills stacked up on the kitchen counter. College tuition for Emily, our daughter, loomed like a monster in the shadows.
I padded to the kitchen, poured a glass of water. My reflection in the window looked back, pale and worried. A school counselor, I spent my days unraveling other people’s problems. Now, my own life felt like a tangled mess I couldn’t decipher.
Next day, during my lunch break, I hustled to the bank. Something gnawed at me, an unease I couldn’t shake. “I need a printout of our recent transactions,” I told the teller, a young guy with a nametag that read “Dave.” He tapped away at his keyboard, then frowned. “Big withdrawal a few days ago. Ten grand.” Ten grand?
My heart slammed against my ribs. We didn’t have ten grand to spare. We were scraping by, counting pennies for groceries. “To where?” I asked, my voice tight.
He shrugged, “Another account, internal transfer.” Michael’s name flashed across the screen as the transferring account holder. Rage, hot and sudden, flared in my chest. He’d moved ten thousand dollars without even mentioning it? What the hell was going on?
The Dinner Date That Went Sour
“Let’s do dinner tonight,” I’d said to Michael that morning. “Just us.” I needed answers, and maybe a little bit of the old him, the one who used to look at me like I hung the moon. He’d agreed, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly.
We were at Rossi’s, the Italian place downtown we used to frequent before… before everything started feeling off. Candles flickered on the tables, casting a warm, romantic glow that felt like a cruel joke. Michael showed up twenty minutes late, his tie askew, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Sorry,” he muttered, sliding into the booth. “Traffic was hell.”
Traffic. Right. Like I believed that. I tried to keep my voice light, pushing down the knot of anxiety in my gut.
“So, how was your day?”
He mumbled something about a meeting, his eyes darting around the room, never quite meeting mine. He picked at his food, barely touched his wine. Every few minutes, he’d sneak a glance at his phone under the table, his thumbs tapping out a rapid message.
“Who are you texting?”
I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. He jumped, shoving the phone into his pocket.
“Nobody. Just work.”
Work. At ten o’clock at night? Lies. He was drowning me in them. The pasta tasted like sawdust in my mouth. This wasn’t a date. It was a performance, and he wasn’t even trying to be convincing.
Following Breadcrumbs to a Cold Bed
Another late night. Another excuse. “Meeting with a client,” he’d said, grabbing his keys. “Don’t wait up.” Don’t wait up? Like I could sleep, not knowing where he was, who he was with. I waited until I heard his car pull out of the driveway, then grabbed my own keys.
Downtown was a blur of neon lights and bustling crowds. I spotted his car parked outside O’Malley’s, a dimly lit bar known for its strong drinks and questionable clientele. My heart hammered in my chest. What was he doing here? I parked a block away, keeping my car hidden, and walked back. Through the window, I saw him.
He was at a corner booth, laughing with a woman. A young woman, blonde, with a dress that showed too much. She leaned in close, whispering something in his ear. He laughed again, throwing his head back, a carefree gesture I hadn’t seen in months.
They left the bar together, his hand lingering on the small of her back. I followed, a shadow in the city night, each step fueling the fire of betrayal burning inside me. They walked to the Grand Regent, a hotel a few blocks away. I watched them enter, my stomach twisting into knots.
I waited, pacing in the lobby, pretending to read a brochure, the fancy script blurring before my eyes. An hour crawled by. Then two.
About the Author
