He Apologized to the Woman Who Burned Me

"See, the trick isn't hiding the bank statements," Daniel's voice echoed through the living room. "It's making sure the billing address doesn't even exist."

I kept the microfiber cloth pressed flat against the glass coffee table. The television had switched on by itself, shifting from a black standby screen to a live casting feed.

A young woman, maybe twenty-two, giggled. "You're so bad, Danny."

She sat straddling his lap on the deck of a sun-drenched yacht. Daniel adjusted his aviator sunglasses, leaning back into the white leather cushions.

I didn't drop the rag. My gaze slid to the top right corner of the screen.

Live Viewers: 1,402.

"Danny, they're asking questions," the girl said, pointing a manicured finger at the camera lens.

I stepped closer to the television. Sunlight bounced off the platinum Patek Philippe on his left wrist. I bought him that watch for our tenth anniversary, two years ago. I had spent six months saving for it.

I glanced down at my own wrist. It was exactly 6:15 PM on a Wednesday.

"I'm heading to Boston for jury selection," he had told me at seven o'clock that morning, kissing my cheek by the front door.

The turquoise ocean rolling behind the yacht did not belong to Massachusetts.

"Alright, let's see what we have in the chat," Daniel said. He sounded like a slick radio host. An arrogant frat boy. Never the quiet, exhausted partner who came home to me every night.

"Counselor, what about the hotel deposit?" he read aloud from the scrolling text. "Good question, User889. Always use cash for the incidental hold. Tell the front desk your corporate card is locked for travel fraud. They take the cash, and no paper trail hits the joint account."

"Ooh, smart," the girl cooed, tracing his jawline.

Twelve years of marriage. Twelve years of believing the man on screen was a stranger to this version of him.

For one second, my throat closed around something hot and sharp. The cloth in my hand twisted. I forced my fingers to relax.

Not yet. Not here.

I walked into the kitchen, picked up my phone from the marble island, and swiped down to the control center. I tapped the screen record icon. A small red dot appeared at the top of my display.

I returned to the living room and held the phone up, framing the entire sixty-five-inch television within my camera view.

"Counselor, she tracks my location on Find My Friends," Daniel read, chuckling loudly.

"Leave the iPad at the office," he instructed the camera. "Turn off location sharing on your phone, turn it on for the iPad. Have your paralegal tap the screen every few hours so it stays active."

"Does your wife ever check that stuff?" the young woman asked, resting her chin on his chest.

"Margaret?" Daniel laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. "She thinks I'm in a federal courthouse in Boston right now. She doesn't know how to open a PDF, let alone track an IP address."