Chapter 2
I had Ryan Mercer's full name by day two. His employer by day three. His wife's name and employer by day five — Rebecca Mercer, HR director at the same firm where Claire worked, one floor up from her own department. I had screenshots forwarded to my own email from the night I found that first message. I had three weeks of bank statements showing recurring charges at a hotel forty minutes from our house, charges Claire had explained, when I'd asked once in passing, as a girls' trip with coworkers that I had not pressed further on at the time.
I had called Rebecca Mercer two days before tonight.
I had not told her everything immediately — I am not cruel, whatever this story might suggest about me, and I understood that handing a stranger evidence of her husband's affair over the phone deserved more care than a single call could provide. I told her only that I had information she would want to see in person, and that I believed her husband was planning to be at my house on Thursday evening. I gave her the address. I told her she could decide what to do with that information herself.
She decided to come.
Ryan stood on our front step in a clean button-up shirt, holding his phone, checking his reflection in the glass beside the door. Claire opened the door, hair still damp, and froze.
"What are you doing here?"
"Don't do that," he said. "You told me to come."
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"I didn't tell you anything."
He lifted his phone. "Then who did?"
