Chapter 1

My son's in first grade, and his teacher gave the class a homework assignment to track what time their dads came home each night.

I stared at the assignment sheet, and my hands started shaking.

Every time I went on a business trip, my husband, David Young, stopped coming home at six in the evening. Instead, he'd roll in at five-thirty in the morning.

He always had the same excuse, and he'd flash me this easy smile while he explained that he was driving for Uber while our son was asleep, trying to make some extra cash. He even showed me the payment receipts.

I almost believed him.

Then the algorithm pushed a post from someone nearby into my feed.

[I'm in love with my married boss, but when his wife's in town, we can only hook up in his car. I'm dying to mess around in his actual bed.]

Someone in the comments section called her out. [Homewreckers get what's coming to them. Have some decency.]

The poster fired back immediately. [The unloved wife is the real third wheel!]

Right after that, she posted a selfie wearing a men's dress shirt.

The photo hit me like a punch to the gut.

My phone nearly slipped from my hands.

The shirt cuff had embroidered initials that I'd sewn on myself just last week: [D.Y.]

*****

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest.

The blogger's handle was "PeachyKitten."

The photos didn't show her face; they only showed everything below the neck.

She wore that white dress shirt with three buttons undone, and I could see the black lace bra underneath.

That shirt was the one I'd bought David when he got promoted. It cost over a thousand dollars.

He complained the cuffs irritated his wrists, so I hand-embroidered his initials on the collar with silk thread.

I would recognize those stitches anywhere, even in my sleep.

I set down my phone and rushed into the bedroom. I yanked open the closet and looked at the spot where his dress shirts hung. Empty.

I walked back out to the living room.

David sat on the couch with our son, watching cartoons and playing the perfect father.

I stopped in front of him and kept my voice steady. "Honey, where's your white dress shirt? You have that big meeting tomorrow and I wanted to iron it for you."

David didn't look away from the TV. "Oh, that one? I spilled wine on it at dinner last week, so I took it to the dry cleaners. Won't be ready for another couple days."

He lied without missing a beat.

I nodded and didn't say anything else. I went back to the study and reopened PeachyKitten's profile.

Her IP address showed she was in the same city as us.

The pinned post at the top was from three days ago. The photo showed a man's hand on a steering wheel, and I recognized the dashboard of our Audi in the background.

The caption read: [My personal driver reporting for duty. He says the passenger seat is my throne forever. That worn-out wife at home can ride in the trunk where she belongs.]

The comment section below the post exploded with hate. One user wrote: [That's disgusting. Doesn't it get nasty in the car?]

The blogger replied with zero shame. [Nasty? He gets it detailed after every time. His wife works night shifts, so the car's basically our mobile hookup spot.]

I stared at the photo.

A small cross hung from the rearview mirror, and I recognized it immediately. I had picked it up from the chapel on the mountain.

Now it was just part of the background for their affair.

Nausea hit me hard, and I rushed to the bathroom. I dry heaved over the sink and caught my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale, and dark circles shadowed my eyes.

I had taken care of everything for this family. I did all the housework and even volunteered for the graveyard shift at the hospital so we could have more money.

To him, I was just some frumpy wife who belonged in the trunk.

I thought back to last Friday, right when that post went live.

I had been scheduled for the night shift that day.

Before I left, David had been so thoughtful and packed me a thermos of hot chocolate.

He smiled at me and said, "You work so hard, Honey. I'll take care of our son tonight. Don't worry about anything."

I had felt so touched at the time.

Now the memory made me sick.

My phone buzzed.

The blogger had posted an update.

This time it was a video. The footage showed a man painting her nails. I could see a small black mole on the back of his hand, and the location matched David's perfectly.

David's familiar voice played in the background audio, and I heard a tenderness I'd never heard from him before.

"Baby, this color looks amazing on you," he said. "Your hands are so much prettier than my wife's. Hers are rough from all the housework."

The blogger's caption read: [He told me his wife's hands feel like sandpaper, but mine are soft and he can't keep his hands off them.]

I looked down at my own hands.

Years of cooking and cleaning had left my fingertips rough and dry.

These were the hands that cooked his meals and took care of him, and now he called them sandpaper.

I turned off my phone.

Tears ran down my face and blurred everything, but I didn't make a sound.

I wiped my eyes and felt something cold settle in my chest.

I whispered, "David, you're going to regret this."