On our eighth anniversary, my husband insisted that only I prepare a feast for thirty-eight guests, while he was tucked away at a hotel with the woman from his office. I smiled and said, “Of course,” and a few hours later I was at the airport, leaving thirty-eight covered plates lined up like a perfectly behaved secret. When those covers were lifted, the room finally learned who had been doing the smiling.

He’d once said something I never forgot.

No matter who it is, they leave a trace.

I pressed call. It rang only twice before his voice came low and brisk.

“Natalie. What’s wrong?”

I bit my lip. “I need your help,” I said softly. “It’s personal. Urgent.”

Two hours later, we met at a quiet café behind the bowling alley where Samuel often met off-record clients. He was the same as ever—wrinkled shirt, khaki jacket, eyes narrowed as if he could see through words.

I placed an envelope before him containing the photo of Carter kissing his secretary, along with two addresses: my home and Carter’s company.

Samuel didn’t ask much. He looked at the photo for a few seconds, then nodded.

“I need five days,” he said. “I’ll shadow both of them—lunch breaks, after hours, weekends if anything unusual comes up. But I need him not to know you suspect anything.”

I nodded, my voice steady. “I won’t change a thing. Still the perfect wife they think I am.”

Samuel reached into his bag and pulled out two small black boxes, thin as hard drives. He opened them on the table like he was revealing jewelry, except this wasn’t meant to make anyone feel beautiful.

One was a keychain camera. The other was a tiny camera meant to be installed in a headboard or a lamp.

“If you really want to know everything,” he said, “put one in his car and one in your bedroom—the place he thinks you’d never suspect.”

I held the boxes, my palms sweating. It felt like holding small bombs, except this time the bombs were in my hands, not anyone else’s.

Samuel leaned forward, speaking softly, almost like a benediction. “I know you’re smart,” he said, “but in this matter, I hope you’re also cold enough.”

I left the café as the clock edged toward midafternoon. When I got home, Carter was on a video call with his mother in his office. I passed by, smiling as always, and he didn’t even glance up long enough to notice the strain around my eyes.

Inside, I thought of the white-gray-trimmed bedsheets in our bedroom. Tonight, I would mount the camera behind the bedside lamp.

I thought of the key tray in Carter’s car, where the keychain camera would blend in with his keys as if it had always been there.

Before going into the kitchen, I looked out the window. Mrs. Marleene was cutting roses in her garden. She glanced up, caught my gaze, then pointed to a small box on the boundary wall between our houses.

“Dried lavender tea helps you sleep deep,” she called. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”

I walked over, took the tea box, and nodded gently. “Thank you,” I said. “You always know what I need before I do.”