I watched the screen, my breath catching in my throat. I could see the man’s shadow move over the bed. I heard the muffled, high-pitched sound of my son crying, but it was cut short.

The man stayed in that room for three minutes. Those three minutes felt like three lifetimes. My brain was screaming at me to move, to run, to scream, but I was frozen, watching the feed like I was watching a horror movie that didn’t involve my own child.

When he finally walked out, Emma didn’t even turn around. She just flicked her eyes toward him and then went back to her show. I didn’t wait. I grabbed my keys, jumped into my car, and drove home. I think I broke every speed limit in the county. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel. I didn’t care about the cops. I didn’t care about anything except getting through that front door.

I stormed into the living room. Emma was still on the couch. She looked up, her eyes going wide when she saw me standing there, panting, face red with pure rage. I pulled out my laptop and shoved it in her face. I didn’t say a word. I just pointed at the screen where I had paused the footage of the man leaving the room. Emma looked at the laptop, then at me. Her face went gray. She collapsed back into the cushions, her body shaking.

“I didn’t know he would do that,” she sobbed. She was clutching her bag, trying to scramble up, but I blocked her path.

“Who is he?” I asked. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else.

She started to cry harder. “My boyfriend.”

“How did he get a key?” I demanded. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “I never gave you a key. We use the keypad.”

She looked down at her lap, her lip trembling. “He made a copy. Of your spare under the mat.”

I felt the floor drop out from under me. I had forgotten that spare key was even there. It was one of those things you put down and stop seeing after a few weeks.

“Who told him about the mat?” I asked. I felt a cold dread settling into my bones.

She looked at me then. Her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. “Your husband.”

I stopped breathing. The silence in the house was heavy, suffocating.

“They work together,” she whispered. “He told your husband he was my brother. But he’s not.”

She looked away, unable to meet my eyes anymore.

“He’s your husband’s lover.”