I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm sorry. Save your tears. They're 6 months late.
The text message that destroyed my marriage came on a Tuesday at 2:47 p.m. while I was installing smart thermostats in Mrs. Henderson's guest bedroom. Alicia's tablet pinged on the kitchen counter, and I glanced over out of habit. The preview showed enough to make my stomach drop like a hammer through drywall. Can't wait to feel you inside me again while that pathetic husband of yours is crawling around in someone else's attic. I stood there holding a Phillips head screwdriver, staring at those words until they burned into my retinas.
The sender was Dylan Maddox, the real estate agent who'd hired me 6 months ago to install a home automation system in his condo. The same Dylan who'd shaken my hand, complimented my work, and apparently been screwing my wife the entire time. My name is Dean Carter and I fix things for a living. Broken pipes, faulty wiring, cracked foundations, you name it, I can repair it. But standing in that kitchen watching more messages pop up on Alicia's screen, I realized some things can't be fixed.
They can only be demolished. The messages kept coming. Graphic details about what they'd done in our bed. Jokes about how I was too busy with my tools to notice what was happening under my own roof. The worst part, Alysia's responses were just as filthy, just as cruel.
She called me clueless and boring and said I was lucky to have her. I set down the screwdriver and walked back to Mrs. Henderson's guest room like nothing had happened. Finished installing the thermostat with steady hands while my world crumbled around me. 23 years of marriage and I'd been reduced to a punchline in someone else's dirty joke. When I got home that evening, Alicia was cooking dinner like she did every Tuesday.
Spaghetti and meatballs, my supposed favorite. She smiled at me with those perfect white teeth she'd had veneered last year with money from our joint account. "How was your day, honey?" she asked, not looking up from the stove. "Fine," I said. "Just fine." I watched her move around our kitchen, the kitchen I'd renovated two years ago, installing custom cabinets and granite countertops because she'd begged me to make it magazine perfect.
She looked beautiful as always, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing the blue dress I'd bought her for our anniversary. She had no idea I knew, no idea her tablet had betrayed her secret, and I decided right then that I wouldn't tell her. Not yet. That night, after she fell asleep, I slipped down to my workshop in the basement. I'd been slowly converting it into a smart home command center, installing security cameras and automation systems throughout the house.
What had started as a hobby was about to become my weapon. I pulled up the camera feeds on my laptop, kitchen, living room, front door, back door, all recording to cloud storage with motion detection. I'd installed them 6 months ago, right after Dylan's project, claiming I wanted to protect our home from break-ins. Alicia had rolled her eyes, but hadn't objected. Smart woman, not smart enough.
I spent the next 3 days acting normal while I planned. Made coffee in the morning, kissed Alicia goodbye, went to work, came home for dinner. But every spare moment I was preparing, installing new cameras, upgrading the system, creating a digital net that would catch every lie, every betrayal, every moment of their affair. On Friday, I struck gold. Motion sensor in the living room triggered at 1:23 p.m. While I was supposed to be at a job across town.
I watched the footage later that evening, and there they were, Dylan and Alicia, on our couch, going at it like teenagers. She was wearing the red lingerie I'd bought her for Valentine's Day. I sat in my basement workshop watching my wife cheat on me in high definition, and I felt something cold settle in my chest. Not anger exactly, something more calculating, more dangerous. I copied the video to three different secure servers and saved it to an encrypted drive.
Then I opened a new notebook and started making lists. Dylan's routines, his business contacts, his weaknesses, his car, a black Mercedes C-Class that he was stupidly proud of. By Sunday night, I had a plan. The first phase was information gathering. I needed to know everything about Dylan Maddox, his business dealings, his other women, his vulnerabilities.
Lucky for me, I'd already been inside his condo for 2 weeks installing smart home systems. I'd seen his computer, his files, his habits. I'd even installed a security camera in his bedroom at his request. What Dylan didn't know was that I'd programmed the camera to send feeds to my own server. What a trusting soul.
Monday morning, I called in sick to my scheduled job and drove to Sal's diner on Route 40. I knew Dylan met clients there every Monday at 10:00 a.m. Because I'd overheard him mention it during our project. I sat in a corner booth nursing coffee and watching him gladand potential sellers. The man had no idea he was being studied like a lab rat. At 11:30, Dylan left the diner and walked to his Mercedes.
I watched him check his phone, frown, then try to start the car. Nothing. He tried again, still nothing. He popped the hood, poked around for a few minutes, then called a tow truck. What Dylan didn't know was that I'd cloned his car's key fob during the condo installation, and used it to disable his battery connection remotely.
A simple trick I'd learned from YouTube. Amazing what you can do with the right tools and a little creativity. I followed the tow truck to Jerry's auto shop on Eastern Avenue. While Dylan argued with the mechanic about the mysterious electrical problem, I slipped around back and planted a GPS tracker under his rear bumper. Militaryra magnetic mount.
3-month battery life. I bought it online for home security purposes. Phase two was psychological warfare. I wanted Dylan paranoid, looking over his shoulder, questioning every little thing that went wrong in his life. I wanted him to feel hunted.
Over the next week, I made his life miserable in small, untraceable ways. His morning coffee order got screwed up three days in a row at his regular shop. His dry cleaning was lost for 2 days. His gym membership was mysteriously cancelled. His favorite parking spot downtown was always occupied by a different car.
I watched him through the camera feeds, saw him getting more frustrated each day. He started looking around suspiciously, checking his phone constantly, jumping at shadows. Perfect. Meanwhile, at home, Alicia was getting bolder. She started running errands in the middle of the day, coming home with must hair and the smell of another man's cologne.
She'd shower immediately, humming little songs to herself like she was drunk on secrets. I played the faithful husband, made her favorite meals, asked about her day, told her I loved her, and every night I'd review the camera footage and add new details to my growing file on their affair. They were meeting at a cheap motel on Route 1 every Tuesday and Thursday. They'd been together in our house at least a dozen times. Dylan had been in our bedroom, used our shower, eaten food from our refrigerator.