He came back home at 7:00 AM, walked into our bedroom, and crawled into bed next to me. He smelled faintly of cold air and peppermint.

He had acted completely normal. He asked me how I slept. He ate the scrambled eggs I made for him.

I felt sick to my stomach. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone.

I didn’t say anything that day. I couldn’t. I was in complete shock.

Instead, I spent the weekend going through six months of saved footage on the cloud. The subscription allowed me to view everything.

I sat in the dark library office during my lunch break, scrolling through page after page of video files.

She had been there seventy-four times.

Seventy-four times in six months. Always on his “night shifts.” Always arriving around midnight. Always leaving just before dawn.

And always after I had taken my sleeping pill.

He had timed it perfectly. He knew exactly when I would be unconscious.

I printed out every single screenshot of them on our porch. Seventy-four pages of clear, high-definition betrayals.

I bought a bright yellow folder from the school supply closet. I placed all seventy-four pages inside.

On Saturday morning, I waited until Richard had finished his breakfast. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the local newspaper.

I walked over and placed the yellow folder right on top of his paper.

He looked up, confused. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” I said. My voice was dangerously calm.

He open the folder. He flipped through the first five pages. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn pale.

He just closed the folder and set it down.

And then he said those words about my father and 1994.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice cracking. “My father died eight years ago. What does he have to do with you bringing another woman into my bed?”

Richard stood up, towering over me. His face was cold, free of any guilt.

“Your father, Arthur, wasn’t the good man everyone thought he was,” Richard sneered. “In 1994, my dad, Thomas, owned the thirty acres near the river. Your father wanted it for his new subdivision.”

I remembered that land. It was now the Riverview Estates, one of my father’s most successful projects.

“My dad didn’t want to sell,” Richard continued, his voice rising slightly. “But your father hired a crooked inspector. They falsified a soil report, claiming our land was heavily contaminated with toxic chemicals. They threatened my dad with millions in EPA fines if he didn’t sell it to your father for pennies.”

I shook my head. “No. My father wouldn’t do that.”

“He did,” Richard spat. “My dad was ruined. He had a stroke a year later and died. My mother had to work three cleaning jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. I swore I would get even.”

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my face.