It was already dead. Two, if Lauren wanted a story where I played the helpless victim, she picked the wrong man. I turned off the faucet, grabbed the iPad, and took it to my office. If they wanted a war, I wasn't going to show up unarmed.
The moment the numbness wore off, I realized I didn't need comfort. I needed information, and I knew exactly who to call. Once I knew the truth, the anger stopped being hot. It settled low like a pilot light.
Steady. Useful. Lauren had six months to plan her move. I gave myself one night to plan mine.
At midnight, after rereading every message twice, I called Karen Bolton, former cop, current private investigator, the kind of woman who could track a footprint through a tornado. I'd used her on insurance jobs before. She owed me a favor. She picked up on the second ring.
"Jason, you don't call this late unless somebody's stealing heavy machinery."
"Worse," I said. "My wife."
That got her quiet. I laid it out for her. Not the emotions, just the facts.
Dates, names, screenshots, the hotel plan, the divorce timeline they were building behind my back. Tara's involvement. Ryan and Brandon's roles. When I finished, Karen whistled low.
"This isn't adultery," she said. "This is premeditated psychological warfare."
"Yeah," I said. "So help me turn it around legally."
She didn't hesitate. "Send me everything." By the next afternoon, she had a dossier. She confirmed the hotel reservation under Lauren's maiden name.
The dates. The texts. The timing. Tara's constant involvement, half cheerleader, half strategist.
The whole thing was airtight, and not in the way they thought. Then she dug into the two men. Ryan Cooper, real estate hotshot, shiny teeth, big listings, married to Jessica, a divorce attorney who didn't miss details. Karen found out Ryan had been flirting with clients for years, maybe more.
His career was a glass wall already starting to crack. Brandon Ellis, tech startup guy with a big mouth and tiny results. His wife, Michelle, kept the lights on. Karen discovered Brandon was moving company money around to cover personal hotel meetings he didn't want investors knowing about.
The more she uncovered, the clearer it became. These weren't romantic heroes. These were two men about to ruin themselves. And Lauren planned to use their fall as the stage for mine.
That's when I started stage two. Not revenge. Reputation groundwork. I made small talk with Mrs. Jenkins, our elderly neighbor.
Eighty years old, sharp as a tack, the unofficial town newswire. I mentioned casually that Lauren had been reconnecting with old high school friends. I added that she'd been working out more, staying out late, really glowing these days. Mrs. Jenkins's eyes lit up like she'd been handed state secrets.
She asked questions, short ones. I answered them even shorter. And just like that, the rumor machine was warmed up. Not lies, just the right breadcrumbs.