Page 6 of Trail of Betrayal
The squeegees scrape against the glass again, screeching like punctuation.
I stand, smoothing my skirt, pretending I’m composed. “Thanks, Elise.”
“No problem.”
I leave her in the hum of the fluorescents.
In the corridor, Isabella’s silhouette glides past the break room, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume. Somewhere in this maze, Lawrence is probably drafting an email about “alignment” or “stakeholder buy-in,” blissfully unaware I’m already ten moves ahead.
The machinery outside drowns my footsteps. Nobody looks up.
I walk to my office, close the door, and start building my case.
From the thirtieth floor, the city sprawls in organized disorder—headlights threading through rain-slick streets, towers blinking Morse code across the dark. I leave the overheads off and let the world outside do the lighting. It’s enough. There’s comfort in altitude. No one can see in.
The apartment looks like it always does: curated to perfection. Two shades of gray, one violent blue. Chrome edges. Crisp lines. The kind of space people call “minimalist” when they mean “sterile.” That blue chair by the window used to feel like focus. Tonight, it’s warning.
I drop my bag on the island, kick off my heels. The floor is cold, immaculate. My reflection flickers in the oven door—pale, stretched, unfamiliar.
The bar cart waits. I pour a glass of wine, the good bottle, but it smells too sweet. I take a sip anyway. It tastes like the kind of mistake you make twice just to be sure.
The dining table sits where it always has, a slab of reclaimed wood that doesn’t match anything else. My father called it “character.” I call it heavy. I clear the mail, open the laptop, and let the hinge click echo through the quiet.
Blue light spills over my hands. Lawrence’s calendar opens first into client meetings, strategy sessions, the same lies wearing business-casual names. I start cross-referencing without thinking. Patterns emerge fast. Too fast.
Receipts. Ride shares. Hotel lunches. Repetition is its own confession.
Each new entry lands like a heartbeat I can control. I color-code them: red for confirmed, yellow for possible. I name the sheetPatterns of Deceit, because calling it what it is feels cleaner than pretending.
My phone buzzes once, a calendar reminder breaking the silence. I swipe it away. Silence reclaims the room.
I move to his iPad, still synced, still unlocked. Photos. Locations. A snapshot of a hotel bar. Isabella’s reflection in a chrome surface behind him, smiling like she’s in on a joke. Of course she is.
I switch tabs, open her Instagram. Wine glasses, city lights, “Girls’ Night.” The timestamps overlap with his expenses so perfectly it’s almost poetic.
I mark each overlap with another color—violet, maybe, the shade of bruising before it fades.
The process is methodical, almost soothing. My heartbeat slows, my mind sharpens. The pain is still there, but now it has structure.
A reflection moves across the glass window. The citylight catches the violent blue chair—electric, alive, too bright. It feels like a pulse. Or a threat.
I check the time: 3:47 a.m. My laptop hums; my wine is untouched again. The skyline is paling at the edges, turning from ink to steel.
When I match the last transaction—a hotel charge from a night he swore was an “all-hands dinner”—something inside me settles. Not peace. Just precision.
I sit back, fingers stiff from typing, eyes burning. The file is airtight: screenshots, timelines, call logs, cross-referenced down to the minute. Bulletproof.
My father’s photo sits on the shelf across from me, black-and-white, frame unadorned. His expression is stern enough to make me straighten automatically.The difference between being smart and being right,he used to say,is having the receipts.
I have them now. Every single one.
I stack the papers, close the laptop, and catch my reflection in the screen. The face looking back isn’t soft. It’s sharp enough to draw blood.
I drink the last of the wine—it’s bitter and perfect—and rinse the glass, placing it back on the bar cart like evidence returned to its shelf.
The sky shifts fully to morning.
I don’t close the blinds. I let the light find me. Exactly where I am.
