The shower was still running when his phone buzzed.
I reached for it out of habit. Ten years of marriage teaches you that. Keith forgets meetings, misses reminders, ignores his mother's calls. I've always been the one who catches things before they fall.
The notification wasn't from Slack. It wasn't a text. It was a little gray icon I didn't recognize — something called Vault, disguised to look like a calculator.
I unlocked his phone. His passcode was Chloe's birthday. I picked it years ago, when he couldn't be bothered.
The app opened.
At first, I didn't understand what I was looking at. Folders. Dozens of them. Labeled by month. February. March. April. All the way up to this week.
I tapped one.
A girl smiled up at me from the screen. Long dark hair. Winged eyeliner. Maybe twenty-four. She was sitting on Keith's lap in a booth at some restaurant, her hand curled around a wine glass. Behind her, a candle. Behind the candle, my husband's face, softer than I'd seen it in years.
I swiped.
Another photo. Her in a hotel bathrobe. Another. Her bare shoulder, his hand on it. Another. The two of them in a car, her lips pressed to his cheek, the caption in his own handwriting: *my girl, 03/14*.
I kept swiping. My thumb moved without me. Two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven photos. I counted the folder tallies twice because my brain refused to hold the number the first time.
The shower shut off.
I don't remember thinking. My hands moved on their own. Screenshot. Screenshot. Screenshot. I opened my own cloud, dumped every file, watched the little blue progress bar crawl while the pipes groaned behind the wall.
He was humming. Keith hums when he showers. Something tuneless and cheerful.
I closed the app. Locked the phone. Set it back on the nightstand at the exact angle I'd found it — screen down, one inch from the lamp base, charger cable curled to the left.
When he came out with a towel around his waist, I was reading a book. I don't know what book. I couldn't have told you the title if he'd asked.
"You okay?" he said. "You look tired."
"Long day," I said.
He kissed the top of my head. He smelled like my body wash. He always uses mine because he says his makes his skin itch.
"Love you," he said.
"Love you too," I said.
And my mouth did not shake.
---
I waited until his breathing went slow and even. Then I slipped into the bathroom, turned the shower on full blast, sat on the tile floor in my nightgown, and cried into a folded towel so nothing would leak out.
Elevean minutes. I counted, because counting was the only thing keeping me from screaming.
Then I washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Went back to bed. Lay on my side of the mattress with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to my husband snore beside me while my brain quietly, methodically, began to sort what I now knew.
Eight months. The photos went back eight months.
March fourteenth was the night I'd waited up because he said the freeway was closed.
April twenty-second was Chloe's spring recital. He'd told me he was stuck in Portland.
June ninth was our anniversary. He'd brought me tulips.
I didn't cry again. I made a list in my head instead. Lists are what I do.
---
In the morning I made his coffee the way he likes it — two sugars, splash of oat milk. I packed his lunch. Turkey on sourdough, the crust cut off because he thinks crust is peasant food. I kissed him at the door.
"Have a good day, babe."
"You too."
The door closed. I stood in the hallway with my hand flat against the wood and I felt nothing. That was the part that scared me. Not the rage. The nothing.
Then I opened my notebook — the small black one I've carried since grad school — and I wrote her name at the top of a fresh page.
*Romina Vargas.*
I'd found her in ninety seconds. The photos had geotags. The geotags led to an office building on Fourth Avenue. The office building led to a company directory. The directory led to a LinkedIn, and the LinkedIn led to a TikTok with forty-one thousand followers and a bio that read *taken by my dream protector 🤍*.
I watched every video. All of them. Ninety-three, over the course of two evenings, after Chloe was asleep. I took notes. Timestamps. Restaurant names. Outfits I recognized from Keith's credit card statements.
There was one, posted at 8:14 p.m. on a Thursday in September, filmed from her side of a candlelit table. My husband was on the other side, twirling linguine onto a fork and lifting it to her mouth like a scene from a movie he'd watched too many times.
That was the night he'd told me he was in a board meeting.
I paused the video. Screenshotted. Saved. Wrote it down.
---
A week later, over breakfast, he said, "Hey, so — Thursday. I've got to work late. I'm gonna miss Chloe's teacher thing. I feel awful."
"It's okay," I said, pouring his coffee. "I'll go."
"You're the best." He kissed my temple. "I'll make it up to her this weekend."
"Mm-hm."
When he left, I opened TikTok. Romina had posted a teaser twelve minutes earlier.
*He's taking me somewhere magical tonight 🎃👻.*
I closed the app. Set the phone face down. Finished my coffee. And I felt the first clean, sharp thing I'd felt in a week — not fury, not grief, but something colder and more useful.
A plan.
I reached for the notebook and turned to a new page. At the top, I wrote one line.
*Thursday. Waterfront. Bring Chloe.*
