When I finished laying out the evidence, he just sat there for a moment, shaking his head. "This is going to bring down a lot of people," he said finally. "Good," I replied. "It should."
Within a week, the investigation had expanded to include the FBI. Apparently, the network operated across state lines, which made it federal jurisdiction. Assets were frozen, arrests were made, and suddenly Marissa wasn't just dealing with public humiliation. She was looking at potential criminal charges.
The local news picked up the story, and our little suburban scandal became a cautionary tale about modern marriage and digital infidelity. Marissa's picture was on the evening news, identified as a key figure in a multistate adultery ring. She stopped leaving the house entirely, stopped answering her phone, stopped responding to emails or texts. She'd become a prisoner in her own home, afraid to face a world that now knew exactly who she really was.
And Leo? He disappeared entirely. Skipped town, closed his social-media accounts, vanished like he never existed. Smart move, actually.
The internet has a long memory, but it gets distracted easily if you remove yourself from the equation. But Marissa couldn't disappear. She had too many connections, too many responsibilities, too much evidence tying her to everything. She was trapped, and she knew it.
Phase Four was exceeding all expectations. Three weeks later, Leo made the mistake of coming back. I was sitting in my living room enjoying my morning coffee and the kind of peaceful silence that comes from having a house to yourself when I heard the familiar sound of raised voices from the front yard. Through the window, I could see Leo standing on our porch, gesticulating wildly at Marissa, who was blocking the doorway like she was protecting Fort Knox instead of our suburban home.
The guy looked like he'd been living rough, unshaven, clothes wrinkled. That desperate edge that comes from having your entire life implode on social media. Apparently, disappearing hadn't worked out as well as he'd hoped. The internet may have a short attention span, but debt collectors and angry gym owners have much longer memories.
"You owe me 20 grand!" he was shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Medical bills, lost income, legal fees. This is all your fault." Marissa's voice was sharp and bitter when she replied.
"My fault? You're the one who suggested using that stuff in the first place. I didn't tell you to bring goddamn superglue." There it was. The admission I'd been waiting for.
Even better, Mrs. Patterson was already on her balcony with her phone out, probably livestreaming the whole thing. Some people never learn. The argument escalated quickly from there. Leo shoved past Marissa into the house, and she followed him, their voices carrying through the thin walls as they continued their blame game inside our home.