The closet smelled like cedar and old wool. I stood on my toes, reaching past the hangers, past the dry-cleaning bags, to the shelf where Jett kept his winter coats. He wouldn't need them for months. He never looked up there between seasons.
My fingers brushed something that wasn't fabric. Paper. A bundle of it, rubber-banded tight, shoved behind the navy peacoat he wore to company dinners.
I pulled it down.
Emails. Printed on office paper, three-hole-punched like someone had kept them in a binder once. The pages were soft at the edges, handled often. I sat on the bedroom floor with the bundle in my lap and slipped off the rubber band.
The first page was dated April, two years ago. Before Malayah was hired. Before she was 'the director's niece.'
*Jett—Last night was perfect. I keep thinking about what you said, about building something real when the time is right. I can wait. I'm good at waiting. —M*
I turned the page.
*Maya—You're the only real thing in my life. Everything else is just performance. The job, the image, all of it. But when I'm with you, I don't have to pretend. Soon. I promise. Once the promotion goes through, we'll figure it out. —J*
My hands didn't shake. I read each page slowly, carefully, the way I read technical documents at work. There were dozens. Some printed emails. Some handwritten notes on hotel stationery. One on a napkin from Canlis, her handwriting in looping purple ink: *The wife situation is temporary. You said so yourself. Once you're Assistant Director, no one can touch you. We just have to be patient.*
I set the stack on the carpet. I took out my phone. I photographed each page against the beige floor, the overhead light bright and even. No shadows. No blur. When I finished, I rubber-banded them back together exactly as I'd found them. I stood on my toes and shoved the bundle behind the peacoat.
I went to the kitchen. I pulled my textbook from the shelf. I slid the new photos into the folder with the receipts and bank statements.
The folder was getting thick.
That Saturday, Dave Holloway threw a party at his apartment in Fremont. Jett said we should go. 'Good for visibility,' he said. 'Dave's tight with the ops team.'
I didn't want to go. But I nodded. I put on a clean shirt. I drove us there in silence.
Dave's place was small and loud. Twenty people crammed into a living room with a sagging couch and a TV playing a Mariners game no one watched. Jett grabbed a beer from the cooler and found Dave by the window. They started talking shop immediately—production metrics, the new quality standards, Jett's upcoming promotion review.
I sat in the adjacent room with a paperback I'd brought in my purse. The door was open. I could hear everything.
An hour in, Jett's voice got louder. Looser. He was on his third beer. Maybe his fourth.
'You gotta meet Malayah,' he said. 'She's sharp. Keeps the floor running smooth.'
Dave laughed. 'Reynolds' niece, right? That's what you said.'
There was a pause. Then Jett laughed too. Low and rough. 'Reynolds' niece? Come on, man. She's just the girl from that rub-and-tug place on Pike Street. But she cleans up nice—and Reynolds doesn't know his own family tree. Who's gonna check?'
Dave whistled. 'Jesus, Jett. You're playing with fire.'
'Fire's only dangerous if you get caught,' Jett said. 'And I don't get caught.'
I didn't move. My book stayed open on my lap. My phone sat in my coat pocket on the chair beside me, recording. I'd started the habit three weeks ago. Every time Jett and I went somewhere together, I hit record before we walked in. Just in case.
Just in case.
I let it run for another twenty minutes. Then I stood, walked into the living room, and touched Jett's shoulder. 'I'm tired,' I said. 'Can we go?'
He frowned. 'Already?'
'The baby's with your mom. I don't want to leave her too long.'
He sighed. 'Yeah. Okay.' He clapped Dave on the shoulder. 'See you Monday, man.'
In the car, Jett leaned his head against the window. 'Dave's a good guy,' he said. 'Solid.'
'Yeah,' I said.
When we got home, Jett went straight to the guest room. I went to the kitchen. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. I plugged it into my laptop. I saved the audio file with the date and location in the filename. I backed it up to three separate drives.
Then I opened my textbook. I added a new page to the folder.
At the top, I wrote in my small, tight handwriting: *Voice recording—Dave Holloway's apartment—Malayah Griffin true identity confirmed by Jett Watkins.*
I closed the book. I made myself tea. I sat at the table in the dark and drank it slowly.
Outside, a car alarm went off. Someone shouted. The alarm stopped.
I rinsed my mug. I dried it. I put it back in the cabinet.
Then I went to bed.
