The next morning, Elena drove to the Queen Anne townhouse.
Claire had advised against it—"Let your lawyer handle communication"—but Elena needed to see it again. Needed to walk through the rooms she'd paid for and confirm that the invasion had been real, not some stress-induced hallucination brought on by jet lag and too many German beers.
She used her key. The door opened.
The house was empty.
Not empty of furniture—the couch was still there, the dining table, the bookshelves she'd assembled herself from Room & Board boxes. But empty of Misty. The baby things were gone. The Diaper Genie. The garish peony duvet. The pink UGG slippers. Even the feeding schedule had been removed from the refrigerator, leaving behind only the Cannon Beach magnet and a faint residue of tape.
Nathan had cleaned up. Erased the evidence. As if that could undo what she'd seen.
She walked through the house slowly, cataloguing what remained. Her clothes were still in the plastic bin in the guest room closet. The master bathroom smelled like bleach—he'd scrubbed it, trying to remove any trace of Misty's presence. The balcony clothesline was bare.
In the kitchen, she found a note on the counter, written in Nathan's hasty scrawl:
Elena – I'm staying at my mom's. Misty is gone. The house is yours. Please call me. We can fix this. I love you. – N
She crumpled the note and threw it in the recycling bin beneath the sink.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
Hi Elena this is Misty. Nathan told me to leave but I just wanted to say I'm really sorry. I didn't know you were still married. He told me the divorce was almost done. I feel so stupid. Can we talk?
Elena stared at the message. The audacity of it—the assumption that she owed Misty anything, that they were somehow sisters in victimhood rather than predator and prey—made her jaw clench.
She typed a reply, then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Finally, she wrote:
Do not contact me again. Any communication should go through my attorney.
Then she blocked the number.
She spent the rest of the day preparing. Claire had sent her a list of recommended private investigators, and she chose a woman named Simone Webb who specialized in financial forensics and infidelity cases. Simone's website featured testimonials from divorce attorneys and a prominently displayed PI license number. Elena called and arranged a meeting for the following week.
Then she drove to her bank.
The branch manager, a middle-aged woman named Patricia who'd handled Elena's accounts for years, greeted her with professional warmth. "Ms. Vance. What can I help you with today?"
"I need complete account statements for the past four years," Elena said. "All accounts. Personal, joint, savings, credit cards. Everything with my name on it."
Patricia's eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn't ask questions. "That's quite a bit of documentation. It'll take a few days to compile."
"I can wait."
She sat in the bank's waiting area for two hours while Patricia and her team printed and organized hundreds of pages of financial records. When the stack was finally ready—three thick binders secured with rubber bands—Elena carried them to her car and drove back to the hotel.
That night, she spread the statements across her bed and began to reconstruct the financial history of her marriage.
The pattern was unmistakable. Nathan's income had always been inconsistent—freelance marketing consulting, a brief stint at a startup that went under, a series of "projects" that never seemed to materialize into steady paychecks. Meanwhile, Elena's salary had climbed steadily: senior product manager, director, VP. By last year, she was earning more than four times what Nathan brought in.
And yet, somehow, she'd never questioned it. She'd told herself they were partners, that his contributions weren't just financial, that he supported her career in other ways. Cooking dinner when she worked late. Handling the contractors during the kitchen renovation. Being there.
But he hadn't been there. He'd been with Misty.
A charge on the joint credit card caught her eye: $3,847.52 at a high-end baby boutique in Bellevue. The date was March 15th—two weeks after she'd left for Berlin. Another charge: $2,100 at a maternity store. Another: $892 for what the statement described as "luxury stroller accessories."
And then there were the cash transfers. Thousands of dollars, every month, moved from their joint savings to an external account. She cross-referenced the account number with the one she'd found earlier. Misty Reed.
Sixty-eight thousand dollars. In less than a year.
Elena closed the binder and sat in the darkness of her hotel room, the city lights of Seattle glittering beyond her window. She thought about the Berlin project. The sixteen-hour days. The weekends spent reviewing contracts instead of exploring the city. The promotion she'd been chasing for three years, finally within reach—and Nathan's voice on their weekly calls, always encouraging, always supportive.
"You're killing it, babe. So proud of you."
Proud. While he was using her absence to move his pregnant mistress into her home.
Her phone rang. Lydia Cole.
Elena let it go to voicemail. A minute later, the transcription appeared:
"Elena, it's Lydia. I know you're upset, dear, but please call me back. Nathan is a wreck. He can't eat, can't sleep. He made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but he loves you. Misty was just—she was a distraction. She pursued him, you know. He was vulnerable. And the baby—well, a child is always a blessing, isn't it? We can work something out. Please, let's talk. As women. As family."
As family. The woman who'd commented "Can't wait to meet my grandbaby!" on her son's Instagram post about his mistress. The woman who'd accepted twenty-two thousand dollars in siphoned funds while Elena was in another country, working to pay the mortgage.
Elena saved the voicemail to her "Evidence" folder and texted Claire:
Lydia called. I have a voicemail. She admits knowing about Misty.
Claire's response came within seconds:
Good. Don't respond yet. Let's talk tomorrow about next steps. Get some rest.
Rest. Elena looked at the clock. 2:47 a.m. She hadn't slept more than a few hours since returning from Berlin.
She closed her eyes and tried to summon the calm, focused mindset that had gotten her through Stanford, through her MBA, through every professional challenge she'd faced. This was just another problem to solve. Another negotiation. She had the data. She had the leverage. She had Claire.
She would be fine.
The mantra repeated in her head until, finally, exhaustion pulled her under.
