“I know,” she whispered.
The admission was almost unbearable.
“You know now,” I said.
“I know now.”
She sank onto the step beside the ruined garden. “He showed me messages. I thought they were between you and him.”
“What messages?”
Daniel stepped forward. “That is private.”
“Show me,” I said.
“No.”
My phone was already in my hand. I walked inside, went upstairs, and opened the shared tablet Daniel used for work.
His passwords were saved.
His messages were there.
A folder named Haley.
Inside were screenshots of texts that did not exist in my phone. My profile picture sat above sentences I had never written.
I am tired of Chelsea always needing you.
I do not want children with you.
I wish you would just leave.
The screenshots were almost convincing. Almost.
But the dates gave him away. One was marked on the afternoon I had been in a meeting with my phone turned off. Another used an abbreviation I had never used in my life.
Below them were his messages to Chelsea.
See? I told you she hates you.
Give her time. She will be relieved.
She will make herself the victim, so do not let her manipulate you.
I stood in our bedroom holding the tablet, and for the first time since the caterer had arrived, I did not feel dizzy.
I felt awake.
I forwarded everything to myself. Then I sent it to Chelsea.
A moment later, her scream rose from downstairs.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
It was the sound of someone discovering that the floor beneath her had been painted over a hole.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Daniel had taken his keys from the counter.
