The security camera footage showed my wife screwing another man in our bed at 2:47 p.m. On a Tuesday while I was supposed to be installing kitchen cabinets across town. I'm Dave Mitchell, 42 years old, and I run a custom furniture business from my garage. Not glamorous, but it pays the bills and keeps food on the table for my wife, Lydia, and our 16-year-old daughter, Maya. Or at least it did until I watched my marriage explode in high definition on my laptop screen. "Dad, you look like you've seen a ghost," Maya said, walking into my workshop where I sat frozen, staring at the damning evidence.
"Just work stuff, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about." I closed the laptop quickly, my hands shaking. "Shouldn't you be at soccer practice?" "Coach canled. Mom's not home yet, and I'm starving. Can you make me a sandwich?" I nodded absently, following her into the house.
The same house where Lydia had been entertaining her lover just 3 hours earlier. The same bed where we'd slept together for 15 years. Where Maya had crawled in during thunderstorms as a little girl. Where I'd held Lydia through her father's cancer scare 2 years ago. The kitchen felt different now.
Everything felt different. Earth to dad, Ma said, waving her hand in front of my face. You're acting super weird. Sorry, kiddo. Just thinking about a project.
I opened the refrigerator, grateful for something normal to do. Turkey and Swiss. Okay, perfect. Oh, and mom texted. She's working late again tonight.
Some big HR thing at the office. Working late, right? I'd installed those security cameras 3 weeks ago after our neighbor, Mrs. Feldman, mentioned seeing unusual activity at our house during the day. I'd thought maybe we had a break-in problem. Turns out the only thing being broken into was my marriage.
I made Maya's sandwich with mechanical precision, my mind racing. The man in the video was Chris Brennan, Lydia's coworker from the regional office. I'd met him at company parties, tall, athletic, the kind of guy who wore expensive cologne and talked about his CrossFit times. The kind of guy who made jokes about bluecollar types like me. Dad, you're putting way too much mustard on that sandwich.
I looked down. She was right. I'd been squeezing the bottle unconsciously, lost in my thoughts of revenge. After Maya finished eating and went upstairs to do homework, I sat in my workshop planning. I'm good with my hands, good at building things, good at taking things apart.
Tonight, I was going to take my wife's perfect little world apart, piece by piece. First, I called my best friend, Eddie, who owns Murphy's Tavern downtown. Dave, what's going on, buddy? Eddie, I need a favor. A big one.
Name it. Can you cover for me if anyone asks? Say I was at the bar tonight from 6:00 to closing. There was a pause. Dave, what kind of trouble are you getting into?
The kind where I catch my wife cheating and need an alibi for what I'm about to do next. Jesus Christ. You sure about this? I've got it on video, Eddie. Highde surround sound.
The whole production. That witch. Yeah, I got your back. But Dave, don't do anything stupid. Don't worry.
I'm not going to hurt anyone, but I am going to make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person Lydia really is. Next, I called Lydia's parents. Judith and Alan Hartwell lived in the old Victorian house on Maple Street, the one that had been in their family for three generations. They were proper people, church-going people, the kind who still believed in marriage vows and family honor. Hello, Alan.
It's Dave. I need to talk to you and Judith about something important. Can I come over tonight? Of course, son. Is everything all right?