Chapter 3: What the Numbers Said
I walked back inside without another word to him.
He followed me through the front door, still talking.
"Danielle, just stop for one second.
Please.
Let me explain before you—"
"Before I what?"
I set my phone on the kitchen counter and opened the banking app.
Our joint checking account.
The one we'd had for eleven years.
The balance was $214.
He stopped in the doorway.
"Marcus." I kept my voice very flat.
"There was over eighteen thousand dollars in this account two months ago."
"I know how it looks."
"Tell me how it looks."
He ran a hand through his hair.
"I've been dealing with some things.
Some financial things I didn't want to worry you with."
I scrolled up through the transaction history.
Withdrawal.
Withdrawal.
Transfer.
Withdrawal.
All of them in amounts just under a thousand dollars.
Dozens of them, spread across fourteen months.
"These go back over a year," I said.
"Danielle—"
"A year, Marcus." I turned the phone screen toward him.
"You've been draining this account for over a year."
He looked at the screen and then looked away.
That small movement — the way he couldn't hold my eyes — told me more than anything he'd said on the front steps.
"Who is she?" I said.
"It's complicated."
"Is she the one who sent me the video?"
He didn't answer.
His jaw tightened.
"Is she the one who covered your car in lingerie this morning while our neighbors watched?"
"I don't know who did that."
"But you know her name." I set the phone down.
"You know exactly who she is.
And you've been spending our money on her for fourteen months."
He sat down heavily at the kitchen table.
For a moment he looked genuinely exhausted, the way a person looks when they've been carrying something too long and finally set it down in the wrong place.
"Her name is Sasha," he said.
The name landed in the room like something dropped on tile.
"Sasha." I said it back to him just to hear how it sounded.
"How did you meet her?"
"Through work."
"Is she a colleague?"
A pause.
"Not exactly."
I waited.
"She works at the hotel," he said.
"The one we use for client events.
I met her about eighteen months ago."
Eighteen months.
Two months longer than the withdrawals.
I pulled out a chair across from him and sat down.
Not because I needed to rest.
Because I needed him to understand I wasn't going anywhere until I had every answer.
"Does she know you're married?"
He looked up.
"Yes."
"Does she know about me specifically?
My name?
What I look like?"
Something shifted in his expression.
A small hesitation that didn't belong there.
"Marcus.
Does she know who I am?"
"She's seen photos," he said quietly.
My hands were completely still on the table.
"What kind of photos?"
"Just — photos.
From my phone.
She went through my phone once and I didn't—" He stopped.
"I didn't stop her the way I should have."
I stood up.
Went to the window.
Outside, the lingerie was still draped across his car.
A neighbor's dog was sniffing at something hanging from the passenger-side mirror.
"She knows where we live," I said.
It wasn't a question.
He didn't answer.
That was its own answer.
I turned back around.
"I want you to call her.
Right now.
In front of me."
"Danielle, that's not going to—"
"Call her, Marcus.
I want to hear what she says when you tell her it's over."
He reached for his phone slowly.
His hands weren't steady.
He found the number.
Pressed call.
Put it on speaker without me asking.
It rang twice.
Then a woman's voice, low and unhurried: "I wondered how long before you called."
I looked at my husband.
He was staring at the table.
"Sasha," he said.
"I need you to stop."
May you like
"Stop what?" she said.
"I haven't done anything yet."
