The drive home is all red lights and wet pavement. Chicago shining in the puddles like a city that doesn't care who just got played. My phone buzzes at a stoplight. Monica.
"Hey, babe. I'm at a friend's place. Girls' night kind of happened. I'll be home late."
I stare at the screen for three seconds. Then I type, "No problem. Have fun. Be safe."
Polite. Warm. Exactly what an unsuspecting husband is supposed to say. I hit send, slide the phone back into the holder, and feel the $100 bill in my wallet like a hot coal.
The apartment's dark when I step in. No heels by the door. No jacket on the hook. The faint smell of her perfume is old, left over from earlier. The place feels hollow, like a body missing a pulse.
I lock the door behind me. Habit. Control the space you're in. In the kitchen, I flip on the light above the dining table. I take out my wallet, unfold the bill, and smooth it flat in the center of the wood, right under the lamp.
The green catches the light. It looks innocent if you don't know the story attached to it. I pull out my phone and take three photos from different angles. Then I open a cloud folder I've never told Monica about. Old car pics, tool lists, random receipts.
I create a new subfolder, giving it a simple name: 12-09 Rooftop. I upload the photos. No drama, just another file. Instead of pacing or drinking or staring at the wall, I grab a pen and a clean sheet of paper from the counter.
I sit down like I'm writing an estimate for a job. Left side of the page, dates. Right side, behavior. I start six months back. The phone started living face down on the table.
New passcode she forgot to mention. Different perfume. The girls recommended more girls' nights. Fewer details. Mileage on her car not matching her stories.
Sudden spikes of overkindness. Favorite meals. Back rubs. Random "I appreciate you" texts at weird hours. I write it all out line by line like symptoms.
No proof yet, just indicators. In my world, engines don't fail all at once. Little things stack up until one day something cracks. People aren't much different. By the time I'm done, the page is full.
It looks less like paranoia and more like a pattern. Around 2:10 a.m., the front lock clicks. I stay seated. Monica steps in, trying to be quiet. She jumps slightly when she sees the kitchen light on.
Her hair is a little messed up, lipstick faded, dress under her coat. She smells like her perfume drowned under a different, sharper scent I recognize from the office. Derek's cologne. "Hey," she whispers with fake surprise. "You're still up."
I glance at the clock, then at her. "Yeah. Couldn't sleep."
She moves fast. Kisses my cheek. Avoids my lips. "Sorry, we lost track of time. Sarah's place. You know how it is."
Sarah. The name goes on the page in my head, not the paper. Brand-new friend. "Yeah," I say. "Text came through. I figured. You eat?"
"A little."
She won't look straight at the table. Her eyes flick to the side, then to the hallway. "I'm going to shower. I feel gross."
"Go ahead," I tell her. "I'll be in bed."
The shower runs longer than usual. Water pounding, fan humming. I lie on my side in the dark, eyes open, replaying the night. The rooftop, the panties, the bill, the text, the lie. The numbers all line up.