The security camera footage showed my wife screwing another man in our bed at 2:47 p.m. On a Tuesday while I was supposed to be installing kitchen cabinets across town. I'm Dave Mitchell, 42 years old, and I run a custom furniture business from my garage. Not glamorous, but it pays the bills and keeps food on the table for my wife, Lydia, and our 16-year-old daughter, Maya. Or at least it did until I watched my marriage explode in high definition on my laptop screen. "Dad, you look like you've seen a ghost," Maya said, walking into my workshop where I sat frozen, staring at the damning evidence.
"Just work stuff, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about." I closed the laptop quickly, my hands shaking. "Shouldn't you be at soccer practice?" "Coach canled. Mom's not home yet, and I'm starving. Can you make me a sandwich?" I nodded absently, following her into the house.
The same house where Lydia had been entertaining her lover just 3 hours earlier. The same bed where we'd slept together for 15 years. Where Maya had crawled in during thunderstorms as a little girl. Where I'd held Lydia through her father's cancer scare 2 years ago. The kitchen felt different now.
Everything felt different. Earth to dad, Ma said, waving her hand in front of my face. You're acting super weird. Sorry, kiddo. Just thinking about a project.
I opened the refrigerator, grateful for something normal to do. Turkey and Swiss. Okay, perfect. Oh, and mom texted. She's working late again tonight.
Some big HR thing at the office. Working late, right? I'd installed those security cameras 3 weeks ago after our neighbor, Mrs. Feldman, mentioned seeing unusual activity at our house during the day. I'd thought maybe we had a break-in problem. Turns out the only thing being broken into was my marriage.
I made Maya's sandwich with mechanical precision, my mind racing. The man in the video was Chris Brennan, Lydia's coworker from the regional office. I'd met him at company parties, tall, athletic, the kind of guy who wore expensive cologne and talked about his CrossFit times. The kind of guy who made jokes about bluecollar types like me. Dad, you're putting way too much mustard on that sandwich.
I looked down. She was right. I'd been squeezing the bottle unconsciously, lost in my thoughts of revenge. After Maya finished eating and went upstairs to do homework, I sat in my workshop planning. I'm good with my hands, good at building things, good at taking things apart.
Tonight, I was going to take my wife's perfect little world apart, piece by piece. First, I called my best friend, Eddie, who owns Murphy's Tavern downtown. Dave, what's going on, buddy? Eddie, I need a favor. A big one.
Name it. Can you cover for me if anyone asks? Say I was at the bar tonight from 6:00 to closing. There was a pause. Dave, what kind of trouble are you getting into?
The kind where I catch my wife cheating and need an alibi for what I'm about to do next. Jesus Christ. You sure about this? I've got it on video, Eddie. Highde surround sound.
The whole production. That witch. Yeah, I got your back. But Dave, don't do anything stupid. Don't worry.
I'm not going to hurt anyone, but I am going to make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person Lydia really is. Next, I called Lydia's parents. Judith and Alan Hartwell lived in the old Victorian house on Maple Street, the one that had been in their family for three generations. They were proper people, church-going people, the kind who still believed in marriage vows and family honor. Hello, Alan.
It's Dave. I need to talk to you and Judith about something important. Can I come over tonight? Of course, son. Is everything all right?
You sound upset. I'll explain when I get there. And Allan, you might want to have Judith sit down for this conversation. At 7:30, I knocked on the Heartwell's front door, laptop bag in hand. Judith answered, her silver hair perfectly styled despite the late hour.
Dave, dear, come in. Allan's in the living room. Would you like some coffee? No, thank you, Judith, but you should probably sit down. We gathered in their formal living room, all dark wood and family portraits.
I set my laptop on the coffee table between us. I installed security cameras in our house 3 weeks ago, I began. I thought we might have had a breakin. Instead, I discovered something else entirely. I opened the laptop and turned it toward them.
This was recorded today at 2:47 p.m. I hit play. Judith gasped and covered her mouth. Alan's face went white, then red, then purple. Turn it off, Judith whispered. Please turn it off.
I closed the laptop. There's more hours of it. Different days, different positions. Allan stood up abruptly, his hands clenched into fists. That's our daughter.
Our daughter who we raised to be a decent woman, a faithful wife. I'm sorry you had to see that, I said. But I needed you to know the truth before I do what I'm about to do next. What are you planning, Dave? Judith asked, tears streaming down her face.
I'm going to make sure everyone knows what she's done. Her friends, her co-workers, everyone at church. I'm going to destroy her reputation the same way she destroyed our marriage. Alan nodded slowly. She's made her bed.
Now she can lie in it. With Chris Brennan, apparently, I added. The next morning, I put my plan into motion. First, I called my assistant, Ry, and told him I was taking a few days off for a family emergency. Then, I called Lydia at work.
"Hey, honey," I said, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I got a last minute job in Chicago. Big money custom dining room set for some tech executive. I'll be gone until Friday. Oh, she said, and I could hear the excitement she was trying to hide.
That's That's great, Dave. The extra money will be nice. Yeah, I'm leaving this afternoon. Kiss Maya for me when she gets home from school. Of course.
Drive safe. I hung up and immediately called Mrs. Feldman, our 70-year-old neighbor who knew everyone's business and wasn't shy about sharing it. Mrs. Feldman, it's Dave Mitchell from next door. Oh, hello dear. How are you?
I'm fine, thank you. Listen, I'm going out of town for a few days on business and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on the house. Maybe watch for any unusual activity. Of course, dear. You know, I'm always watching out for the neighborhood.
Perfect. Mrs. Feldman had better surveillance skills than the FBI. I spent the rest of the day at Eddie's bar, nursing a beer and waiting. At 4:00, my phone buzzed with a text from Lydia. Chris is coming over for dinner tonight to discuss the Henderson Project.
Don't wait up when you get to Chicago. The Henderson Project, right at 6 p.m., I parked three blocks away from my house and walked back through the woods behind our property. I had a perfect view of our bedroom window from the old oak tree in our backyard, the same tree where Maya's tire swing hung, where we'd carved our initials 20 years ago when we were young and stupid and in love. At 7:15, Chris's silver BMW pulled into my driveway. I watched him walk to my front door carrying a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.