On the third attempt, the login screen unlocked.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
“Narcissists are predictable,” she replied evenly. “They create an indelible memory for themselves.”
Files filled the screen, neatly organized. Rachel scanned them with purposeful steps, her face tightening as she opened folder after folder. She inserted a USB drive and began copying documents under my watchful eye.
Then she turned the screen towards me.
“Look at this.”
The email exchange had taken place with a woman named Christine three months prior. Travis had written: “Savannah still believes I go to business dinners. She would believe anything if I said it with enough confidence. Last night, she even ironed my shirt for our meeting.”
I felt nauseous, but Rachel had already opened another folder titled “Exit Strategy,” dated last month. Inside were spreadsheets detailing money transfers: funds transferred to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, appraisals of real estate I didn’t even know existed, and a draft email to a divorce lawyer outlining a strategy to make me appear mentally unstable. He called my “paranoid delusions” of infidelity proof of my unfitness.
“He’s been planning this for a while,” Rachel said, copying file after file. “But he’s careless. These transactions? They come from client accounts. He transfers funds abroad, then reinvests them in the country as investment gains. It’s wire transfer fraud.”
The next morning, I dialed the number that Henri had discreetly written on his card. He answered immediately, his accent being more pronounced on the phone.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said softly. “I was hoping you would get in touch.”
“You mentioned the CCTV footage.”
“Multiple camera angles,” he confirmed. “The dining room, the entrance, and even the audio from the table microphones we use for staff training. What happened to you… in all my years in this business, I’ve never seen such deliberate cruelty.”
We met at a café near the restaurant. Henri arrived with a tablet, scanned the room, and then sat down opposite me. When he started the video, I saw the scene unfold as if it belonged to someone else: an exceptionally clear image, every word Travis spoke captured without distortion.
“I’ve seen him humiliate other people,” Henri said calmly. “Partners. Staff members. But never his wife.”
After a pause, he added: “Two years ago, a waiter named James accidentally spilled wine on Mr. Mitchell’s jacket. Your husband had him fired and effectively banned him from all restaurants in town. James now works in construction.”
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
Henri’s expression softened. “Because someone should have intervened sooner. And because my daughter…” He hesitated. “She married a man who looked a lot like your husband. When she finally left, she had no evidence, no allies. The court believed her.”
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