“Yes.”
“Emergency?”
I looked out at the gray morning, at people driving to work as if the world had not split open.
“Yes,” I said. “Marriage emergency.”
He paused. “I can be there in forty.”
Before going home, I opened the smart-lock activity log.
I had not checked it in months.
That was another thing I would later revisit. Not with blame, exactly, but with recognition. The information had been there. I had simply trusted the person interpreting the system.
We had created a guest code for Tessa after her dramatic lockout. “Temporary,” Caleb said. “We’ll delete it after.”
We never did.
The log showed Tessa’s guest code had been used repeatedly.
11:48 p.m. Tuesday.
10:16 p.m. Saturday.
12:03 a.m. Thursday.
9:42 p.m. another late-shift night.
Again and again, always when I was working or visiting my sister or taking Mason to the vet.
Not proof of sex.
Proof of access.
Access is the part people deny first.
I screenshot every entry.