When I walked back into the living room, I was still shaking, but I was moving with purpose. Not because I had a plan yet. Because I understood with terrible clarity that if I fell apart now, they would win twice.
I went through the iPad like evidence because that is what it was.
Messages first. I took screenshots and sent them to my email, then to a new cloud folder, then to an external drive I kept in my desk for tax records. Then Photos. There was a hidden album, password protected. The password was still 1218.
I should have been surprised there were hundreds of pictures. I was not.
Brett and Tiffany on a beach in Cabo the same week he had told me he was trapped at a real estate conference in Phoenix. Brett and Tiffany at the Greek place downtown on the night he said he had the flu. Tiffany in a hotel robe. Brett shirtless in a mirror. Tiffany’s manicured hand resting on his thigh while he drove my car. The same grin in every picture, the same smug, inside-joke happiness that comes from believing you are smarter than the person you are hurting.
Then I found the sonogram.
Two weeks old.
Patient name: Tiffany Miller.