Chapter 5: The Name Carla Said
I sat down at the kitchen table.
The children were napping.
The house was quiet.
"Tell me," I said.
Carla took a breath.
"My friend works two buildings down from that coffee shop.
I sent her the name and she recognized it — she goes there sometimes.
I asked her to check something for me."
"Carla."
"Her name is Melissa.
She works in Derek's building.
Not on his team — different floor, different department.
But they've been seen together.
Lunch.
That coffee shop.
Once in the car park after seven in the evening."
The kitchen didn't move.
The clock on the wall kept ticking.
"How long?" I asked.
"My friend thinks at least three months.
Maybe longer."
Three months.
Four months of coldness.
The timeline fit so neatly it almost made me laugh.
"Does she know about me?" I asked.
"About the kids?"
"I don't know," Carla said quietly.
"I'm sorry.
I really am."
I looked at the table.
There was a crayon drawing on it — my three-year-old had made it that morning.
A house, four stick figures, a yellow sun.
She'd pointed to each figure and named them.
Mama.
Dada.
Me.
Baby.
"I need proof," I said.
"Not a friend of a friend.
Actual proof."
"I know.
And I think I know how to get it." Carla paused.
"But you have to be ready for what it shows."
"I'm already ready."
"Are you sure?
Because once you see it, you can't unsee it."
"Carla.
I've been wearing a mask around my own children for three days so they don't catch my cold.
I've been running this house sick, alone, while he screamed at me about the pharmacy.
I'm ready."
A short silence.
"Okay," she said.
"Here's what we do."
She walked me through it.
Derek's work calendar was linked to a shared family account — something we'd set up two years ago to coordinate schedules.
He had stopped updating it months ago, but the access was still there.
I opened it on my laptop while Carla stayed on the line.
The calendar was mostly empty.
But there were two recurring blocks, every Tuesday and Thursday, marked simply: *Meeting — offsite.*
They had started four months ago.
"Offsite," I said.
"Yeah," Carla said.
I scrolled back further.
Before those blocks, his calendar had been full — client names, project codes, real entries.
Then, four months ago, everything real disappeared and the offsite meetings appeared in their place.
"He deleted everything and replaced it with that," I said.
"So he could account for the time without being specific."
I closed the laptop.
"I need you to come over," I said.
"I'm already in the car," Carla said.
She arrived forty minutes later.
She came through the door and hugged me before she said a word.
I let her.
I hadn't realized how much I needed that until it happened — someone just holding on without requiring anything from me.
Then we sat at the kitchen table with two cups of tea and we made a plan.
We needed something concrete.
A photo.
A message.
Something Derek couldn't explain away with a smooth voice and a story about a colleague being let go.
"His email," Carla said.
"Does he use the family laptop for anything?"
"Sometimes.
For printing."
"Check the browser history."
I opened the laptop again.
The browser history had been cleared — recently, from the look of it.
But the autofill in the address bar still held fragments.
I typed a single letter.
Then another.
On the third letter, a name appeared in the dropdown.
Not a website.
An email address.
*melissa.w—*
It cut off.
But it was enough.
I looked at Carla.
"He emailed her from this laptop," I said.
Carla set her mug down carefully.
"Then there's a sent folder somewhere."
We found it in under two minutes.
He'd logged out, but the browser had saved the session.
One click and the inbox opened.
I didn't read every message.
I didn't need to.
The most recent one was sent four days ago.
The subject line was blank.
The first line read:
*She's been sick.
It's actually easier right now.*
My hands went flat on the table.
Carla read it over my shoulder.
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then: "Screenshot everything."
I did.
Derek came home at eight thirty that evening, later than usual.
I was in the living room.
The children were already in bed.
I had made dinner and left his plate covered on the counter.
He came in, saw me sitting quietly, and said, "Good day?"
"Interesting day," I said.
He loosened his tie and headed for the kitchen.
"I'm starving."
"Derek," I said.
"Sit down."
Something in my voice stopped him.
He turned around slowly.
May you like
"I need to show you something," I said.
And I opened the laptop.
