Doug was a retired detective with a flat voice, a gray mustache, and the kind of patience that makes guilty people underestimate you. He met me in a diner off I-95 on a rainy Friday morning. The vinyl booth stuck to the back of my thighs. Coffee smelled burnt. My wedding ring felt too tight.
He didn’t waste time pretending my situation was unique.
“Cheaters,” he said, stirring Sweet’N Low into his coffee, “love routine more than honest people do. Makes them feel safe.”
I slid the printed statements across the table.
He looked at the dates, then at me. “You want confirmation or a file?”
“A file.”
That made one corner of his mouth twitch. “Good answer.”
Over the next two weeks, I lived in two realities at once.
In one, I was visibly pregnant, shopping for crib sheets, timing Braxton Hicks contractions, answering Nathan’s distracted questions about stroller colors, and listening to him describe fictional client dinners while he loosened his tie at the kitchen counter.
In the other, I was building a case.