The investigator’s name was Victor Langley, a retired detective with a quiet voice and a patience that made people underestimate him at their own risk.
We met in a roadside diner on a gray Friday morning, rain streaking the windows while the smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.
He glanced over the documents I had brought, then looked at me.
“You want confirmation or you want a case?” he asked.
“A case,” I said without hesitation.
That answer earned the smallest hint of approval.
For the next two weeks, I lived two separate lives.
In one, I was visibly pregnant, preparing for a baby, discussing nursery colors, and listening to Everett describe fictional client dinners while loosening his tie at the kitchen counter.
In the other, I was building evidence.
Victor sent updates through a secure email account I created using an old login Everett did not know existed.
The first set of photos arrived late one Thursday night while Everett was supposedly meeting a contractor in Boston.
I opened them in the nursery, sitting among unopened boxes of baby supplies.