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I checked the security camera footage and discovered every Tuesday afternoon, our neighbor, Kirston, dressed well, came over, and had intercourse with my husband. I started scrolling backward through the footage. Three days earlier. Tuesday. 1:47 PM. Jake put his hand on a beautiful woman's lower back and guided her through the door. I recognized her immediately. Kirsten Vance, she lived thirty feet from my front door. They...cheated... My throat tightened. Then I scrolled back to the week before. Same day of the week. Tuesday. 1:52 PM. Kirsten again. This time, Jake was shirtless. She put her hand flat on his bare chest. He looked down at her with hunger. He pulled her inside by the wrist. Jake snored through the bathroom wall. I sobbed on the cold floor, due to his affair. Two weeks before that. Tuesday. 2:01 PM. And there he was, on my porch, pecking the neighbor's wife with his hands on her hips and her arms around his neck. I scrolled through weeks. Through months. Every Tuesday, the same pattern. Kirsten arriving between 1:30 and 2:00 PM. Sixteen arrivals. I sat on the edge of the bathtub in the dark, tears flowed down. The grief lasted ninety seconds. Then it converted. The neighborhood block party was in twelve days. Kirsten was building a slideshow. And I had sixteen Tuesdays of footage. The game began... ———————— Reagan I knew something was wrong the way you always know — not all at once, but in the small things that don't add up until suddenly they're the only things that do. It was a Tuesday when I came home to a clean house. Not my kind of clean, where everything has a place and the counters smell like the lavender spray I keep next to the paper towels. This was panic clean. Lemon Pine-Sol, the bottle I kept under the sink that Jake had never once reached for in three years of marriage, suddenly half-empty and working overtime on every surface in the kitchen. The dishes were put away — actually put away, in the right cabinets, not just rinsed and abandoned in the drying rack. The couch pillows were fluffed and centered. The blanket I kept folded over the armrest was refolded. Jake didn't fold things. Jake didn't fluff things. Jake didn't know our throw pillows had a front and a back, and he certainly didn't know that the navy ones went on the outside and the cream ones went in the middle. But there they were, arranged like a magazine spread by a man who once asked me why we needed "so many little pillows that nobody sits on." He was on the couch when I walked in, showered and relaxed in a way that didn't match a man who'd supposedly been working all day. Pharma sales. Flexible schedule. The kind of job that sounded impressive at dinner parties and meant absolutely nothing in practice — he set his own hours, made his own calls, and as far as I could tell, spent most of his work-from-home days cycling between ESPN and DoorDash. "Hey, babe. Long shift?" I'd been on my feet for twelve hours. I'd started the day holding pressure on a nineteen-year-old's femoral artery while a trauma surgeon tried to save what was left of his leg after a motorcycle turned left in front of him doing sixty. The surgeon saved the leg. The kid coded an hour later in the ICU and we lost him anyway. I clocked out at seven with my knees aching and my scrub top stiff with someone else's blood. "Long shift," I said. "There's Thai in the fridge. I ordered around seven." He'd ordered Thai. For one. At seven o'clock, while I was changing out of bloody scrubs in the locker room and leaning my forehead against the cold metal of my locker trying to remember what it felt like to not be tired. He hadn't texted. Hadn't called. Hadn't asked if I wanted him to keep a plate warm or leave the porch light on. I ate cold pad Thai standing at the kitchen counter — the counter that smelled like Pine-Sol and wrongness — and I told myself I was imagining things. Told myself I was just tired. Told myself that a clean house was a nice thing, a thoughtful thing, the kind of thing I'd been asking Jake to do for three years. Maybe he'd finally listened. Maybe this was him trying. I went to bed and he was already asleep, turned away from me, breathing the slow, satisfied breath of a man with nothing on his conscience. I lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling and thought: since when does Jake try? The package is what cracked it open. Two days later I was expecting a delivery — a compression sleeve for the knee that had been grinding since a ten-hour shift the week before. The tracking said delivered. Left at front door, 2:14 PM. But when I got home the porch was bare, and when I asked Jake about it over dinner he barely looked up from his phone. "Nah, nothing came. Probably got stolen. Happens all the time on this street." It didn't happen all the time on this street. It had never happened on this street. We lived in Riverside Heights, the kind of neighborhood where people left their garage doors open and waved at each other from their driveways and posted in the group chat if they saw an unfamiliar car parked too long. Nobody was stealing packages. But Jake said it with the easy confidence of a man used to being believed, and I almost let it go. Almost. That night, after Jake fell asleep, I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my phone and opened the Ring app. The doorbell camera — the one Jake had insisted on installing when we moved in, back when he still did things like care about the house — recorded everything that happened on our front porch. Motion-activated, cloud-stored, timestamped. I scrubbed to 2:14 PM. There was the delivery driver. There was my package, set neatly on the welcome mat. There was my front porch, empty and ordinary in the afternoon light. Then 2:20 PM. The door opened. Jake stepped out in basketball shorts and bare feet, picked up the package, tucked it under his arm, and walked back inside. He'd taken my package. Told me it was stolen. Looked me in the eye over leftover chicken and lied about a compression sleeve, of all things, and I still didn't know why. Maybe he'd opened it by accident and thrown it away. Maybe he'd put it somewhere and forgotten. But the lie was there now, small and sharp as a splinter, and I couldn't stop pressing on it. I sat in the bathroom with the blue glow of my phone lighting up the tile and I did something I'd never done before. I started scrolling backward through the footage. Not looking for anything specific. Not expecting anything. Just looking. The way you touch a bruise to see how deep it goes. I wish I'd stopped. ..... The first clip confused me more than it scared me. Three days earlier. Tuesday. 1:47 PM. A woman walked up our front path in a sundress and wedge sandals, her hair blown out and shining in the afternoon light. She didn't ring the bell. Didn't knock. She took out her phone, typed something — a text — and three seconds later the front door opened from inside. Jake, smiling. Not the smile he gave me when I came home from a shift, the tired half-smile that said oh, you're here. A real smile. Wide and warm and directed at this woman like she was the thing he'd been waiting for all day. He put his hand on her lower back and guided her through the door and it closed behind them. I recognized her immediately. I would have recognized her from space. Kirsten Vance lived thirty feet from my front door. She was the woman who'd brought us banana bread the week we moved in, who organized the block parties and the holiday cookie exchanges, who ran the neighborhood group chat with cheerful efficiency and posted reminders about recycling day and whose trash cans were still at the curb. She taught yoga. She had an Instagram following — not huge, but dedicated — full of stories about alignment and showing up for yourself and choosing peace. She'd suggested book club. She'd invited me on neighborhood walks. She'd hugged me at the last cookout, both hands on my shoulders, big smile, and said we should do this more, just the two of us, I feel like I never see you. She'd been seeing my husband. While I was at work seeing the worst moments of strangers' lives. But I told myself it was nothing. I was sitting on the edge of my bathtub in a dark bathroom at eleven at night and I told myself that neighbors visit each other. People borrow things, drop things off, have conversations in kitchens. Kirsten was on the HOA social committee. Maybe she needed Jake's input on the block party layout. Maybe she was returning a casserole dish. There were a hundred innocent explanations. I could have closed the app and gone to bed and woken up tomorrow and never looked again. I scrolled back to the week before. Same day of the week. Tuesday. 1:52 PM. Kirsten again. Same approach — the text, the three-second wait, the door opening from inside. But this time Jake was shirtless. Not coming-from-the-gym shirtless. Fresh-from-the-shower shirtless, hair damp, towel still draped across his shoulders like he'd cleaned up for company. Like he'd prepared. She put her hand flat on his bare chest. Left it there. He looked down at her hand and then at her face, and the expression he gave her — I had been married to this man for three years and I had never once seen that expression directed at me. The hunger in it. The focus. Like she was the only thing in the frame worth seeing. Like everything outside of her had gone soft and blurry and she was the only part of his life in high definition. He pulled her inside by the wrist. The door closed. I could hear Jake snoring through the bathroom wall. Sleeping in my bed, in my house, ten feet away from me while I sat on cold porcelain and watched him pull another woman through my front door with the eagerness of a man who'd been counting the minutes until she arrived. My hands were shaking badly enough that I almost dropped the phone. I scrolled back again. Two weeks before that. Tuesday. 2:01 PM. This time the pecking happened on the porch. Not inside, not in the doorway — out in the open, in full daylight, on the front steps of the house I'd bought with my own money before I ever met Jake Holt. Three years of ER overtime, doubles on holidays, every extra shift the charge nurse would give me. I'd saved since I was twenty-four. I'd done the inspection and the closing and signed the papers myself. It was the first thing I'd ever owned that was entirely mine, and Jake had moved in after the wedding because my house was bigger than his apartment, not the other way around. And there he was, on my porch, pecking the neighbor's wife with his hands on her hips and her arms around his neck. Not a quick pecking. Not an accident. His mouth was open and his fingers were pressing into the fabric of her dress and she was rising up on her toes to reach him and it went on and on and on, eight seconds, ten, twelve, long enough for the camera's motion sensor to decide nothing new was happening and stop recording.