Chapter 5: What the Screenshots Proved
I found a quiet corner of the hotel lobby near a window that looked out onto the street, ordered a coffee I didn't drink, and opened the envelope.
There were four photos and one screenshot.
The first three photos I had already seen.
Ian and Dana at the restaurant near our apartment.
Close.
Comfortable.
The kind of comfortable that takes time to build.
The fourth photo I hadn't seen yet.
It was taken indoors, somewhere I didn't recognize.
A kitchen — not ours.
Ian was standing at a counter with his back partly to the camera, and Dana was beside him, and they were laughing at something.
On the counter in front of them was a birthday cake.
One of those small ones with a single candle.
The date stamp read March 3rd.
I knew that date.
Ian had told me he was in Edinburgh that weekend for a work conference.
I had dropped him at the airport myself.
I had texted him from the couch that evening while he was supposedly at the conference dinner, and he had replied with a photo of a hotel restaurant — a photo I now realized could have been taken at any point.
I set that photo down.
The screenshot was a conversation between Ian and Dana.
The messages were dated October 14th — three weeks after he proposed to me.
**Dana:** I don't understand.
You said you were going to tell her.
**Ian:** I will.
I just need more time.
**Dana:** You've been saying that for four months.
I can't keep doing this.
**Ian:** I know.
I'm sorry.
Just give me until the end of the year.
**Dana:** And then what?
**Ian:** And then I'll figure it out.
I read it twice.
Then I set the screenshot down on top of the photos and looked out the window at the street.
A couple walked past outside, holding takeaway cups, arguing cheerfully about something, bumping shoulders.
A dog on a leash stopped to investigate a lamppost while its owner waited patiently.
My phone rang.
It was my sister, Carrie.
She was calling from home, probably just waking up, probably wanting to hear how the first morning of married life felt.
I answered.
"Hey," she said.
"How's the bride?
Are you two still in bed?"
"I'm in the lobby."
A pause.
"The lobby.
Why are you in the lobby?"
"Carrie." My voice held.
"I need to tell you something."
I told her everything.
The note.
Dana.
The lobby meeting.
The photos.
The screenshot.
Ian's face when I said her name.
The way he had called her unstable before I even used the word.
Carrie didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, there was a long silence.
"Where is he now?" she asked.
"Upstairs."
"And you're sitting alone in the lobby."
"Yes."
"Okay." Her voice was very steady.
"I'm going to ask you one question and I want you to answer it honestly."
"Alright."
"Before today — before this morning — did you ever have a moment, even a small one, where something felt off?
Where you pushed a feeling down because you trusted him?"
I looked at the photos still spread out on the table in front of me.
There had been a moment.
About eight months ago.
Ian had come home late three Thursdays in a row, always with a reasonable explanation, always slightly too detailed in the telling.
I had noticed and then talked myself out of noticing.
"Yes," I said.
"Then you already know what you know," Carrie said quietly.
"The question isn't whether it happened.
The question is what you do now."
"We have a flight in four hours."
"I know."
"The honeymoon is paid for."
"I know that too."
I gathered the photos and the screenshot and slid them back into the envelope.
"He's going to say she's lying.
He's going to say the photos are out of context.
He's going to have an explanation for every single one."
"Probably," Carrie said.
"He's had four years of practice."
That landed somewhere deep and quiet.
"What do I do?" I asked.
Not helplessly.
Just honestly.
"You don't get on that plane," she said.
"Not today.
Not until you know what's true."
I looked at the elevator doors across the lobby.
"He's going to fight me on that."
"Let him," Carrie said.
"That's useful information too."
I picked up the envelope and stood up.
"I'm going back upstairs," I said.
"Do you want me to stay on the line?"
"No.
I need to do this myself."
"Call me after."
"I will."
I ended the call and crossed the lobby.
I pressed the button for the elevator and watched the numbers count down.
When the doors opened, Ian was standing inside.
He had his coat on.
Both our passports in his hand.
"I was coming to find you," he said.
"We need to go.
If we leave now we'll still make the flight."
I looked at the passports.
Then at his face.
"I'm not going," I said.
His expression shifted.
"What do you mean you're not going."
"I mean I'm not getting on that plane today." I stepped into the elevator.
He didn't move.
"I need more time.
And I need you to be honest with me — actually honest — before we go anywhere together."
The elevator doors started to close.
He put his hand out to stop them.
"If you don't come with me today," he said, "what does that mean for us?"
I met his eyes.
"That depends entirely on what you tell me in the next hour."
May you like
The doors stayed open between us.
And neither of us moved.
