I opened the location-sharing app on my phone.
His dot moved across the map and came to a stop at a couples' hotel.
A smile curved my lips. I dialed 911.
"I'd like to report my husband soliciting a prostitute. The location is..."
The meal went straight into the trash.
I flipped open the document Zachery had just signed—a divorce agreement granting him nothing—and felt genuinely pleased for the first time in days.
Five minutes later, my phone nearly exploded with his calls.
He bombarded me with messages. "Ellie, what the hell are you doing? Why did you report me?"
"I was just dropping something off! You're accusing me of soliciting?!"
I didn't respond. I powered off my phone and set it to silent.
Even if Zachery managed to talk his way out of it at the police station, at least it would ruin his night.
I ordered delivery and ate the first meal in days that didn't make my stomach turn.
Then I slept. Long and deep.
The next morning, Zachery woke me.
His face was ashen, his eyes webbed with red veins. He clearly hadn't slept.
"Ellie, why would you do that to me? How did you even know where I was?"
He was trying to figure out whether I already knew about their plan.