3:30 in the morning and I’m sitting in my kitchen like some kind of insomniac detective, nursing cold coffee and wondering when my life turned into a bad country song. The house creaks around me, old bones settling, just like mine after 15 years of swinging hammers and hauling lumber. Eddie Malloy, contractor extraordinaire, reduced to playing midnight solitaire because his wife thinks he’s too stupid to notice she’s been coming home smelling like another man’s cologne.

The front door clicks open. Soft footsteps in the hallway. Jessica thinks she’s being sneaky, but after 18 years of marriage, I know every sound she makes. Her heels hit the hardwood in that particular rhythm she uses when she’s trying not to wake me. The guilty wife tiptoe. Working late again? I call out, not bothering to turn around.

She freezes. I can feel her panic from here, thick as morning fog off the harbor. Eddie, what are you doing up? Couldn’t sleep. You know how it is. When the bed’s empty, sometimes a man’s mind starts wandering. She appears in the doorway, all 5’6″ of polished perfection. Even at this ungodly hour, Jessica looks like she’s stepped out of some corporate magazine.

Her auburn hair is still perfectly styled, makeup touched up, that expensive perfume I never bought her hanging around her like evidence. The Morrison account ran late. You know how demanding clients can be. Sure do, especially the kind that leave hickeys. Her hand flies to her neck, fingers covering the purple mark she thought concealer would hide.

In the kitchen light, it looks like a neon sign advertising her guilt. That’s not I bumped into a cabinet at the office. The corner caught me weird. Must have been some cabinet, shaped like a mouth, was it? The color drains from her face, but Jessica’s always been quick on her feet. That’s what made her such a good HR headhunter, the ability to spin BS into gold. You’re being ridiculous, Eddie.

I’m tired. We’ll talk in the morning. She turns to leave, but her phone buzzes on the counter where she dropped it. The screen lights up with a text preview. Duke Can’t stop thinking about tonight. When can I taste you again? We both stare at it. The silence stretches like a guitar string about to snap. Well, I I say, picking up the phone.

Looks like Duke’s got quite the appetite. Jessica lunges for it, but I’m faster. 18 years of construction work keeps a man’s reflexes sharp. Give me that. Easy there, tiger. Just want to see what kind of business you’ve been conducting. I scroll through the messages, each one a knife twist in my gut. But funny thing about getting stabbed, after the first few cuts, you start to go numb.

Interesting client, this Duke fellow. Very hands-on approach to professional relationships. Eddie, please. Meet me at the lake house. Bring that thing you do with your tongue. Now, that’s what I call customer service. She’s crying now, mascara running down her cheeks like black rain. But I’ve seen Jessica cry before.

Usually when she wants something. This feels different. This feels like getting caught. How long? I ask. It’s not what you think. How long, Jess? 6 months. 6 months. Half a year of coming home to kiss lips that had been wrapped around another man. Half a year of working late and client dinners, and me making excuses for why my wife seemed like a stranger in our own bed.

Who is he? Derek Duvall? He’s a consultant. Ex-military. Of course he is. Let me guess. Muscles like a Greek god. Drives a truck that costs more than I make in a year. Calls himself the Duke, unironically. Her silence is answer enough. I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode. Maybe it already has.

I’m sorry, Eddie. I never meant for this to happen. But it did happen. For 6 months it happened. We can work through this. Marriage counseling, whatever you want. I’ll end it with Derek. Will you? Because these messages suggest Duke’s expecting to see you tomorrow night. Something about a special surprise he’s got planned.

She closes her eyes. I was going to tell you. When? After you two ran off into the sunset? After you cleaned out our joint account? Or were you planning to just disappear one day and leave me wondering what the hell happened to my life? It’s not like that. Then what’s it like, Jess? Explain it to me like I’m one of those dumb construction workers you’re always apologizing for at your fancy office parties.

That hits home. Her face flushes red. I never said you were dumb. You didn’t have to. Every time someone asks what your husband does, you get that look. Like you’re embarrassed. Like you settled for less than you deserved. That’s not true. Isn’t it? When’s the last time you introduce me to your friends without mentioning that I work with my hands like it’s some kind of disability? She has no answer for that.

I stand up bones creaking like the old house around us. I’m going to bed. You can sleep in the guest room. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow. Eddie. Tomorrow, Jess. I need to think. But as I climb the stairs to our bedroom, my bedroom now I guess, I’m not thinking about tomorrow. I’m thinking about Derek Duvall and his lake house and his muscles and his truck.

I’m thinking about 6 months of lies and the way my wife’s friends probably snicker behind my back about poor Eddie the contractor who doesn’t know his wife’s getting serviced by a real man. Most of all, I’m thinking about how Jessica always underestimated me. How everyone does. That’s going to be their first mistake.

Morning comes too early and not early enough. I’m up at 5:30 same as always, but instead of making coffee for two, I’m making it for one. Jessica’s car is gone, probably slunk off to her sister’s place to practice her victim routine. Barney Kowalski shows up at 6:00 sharp, same as he has every morning for the past 3 years.

Barney’s my right-hand man, a stocky Polish guy with hands like sledgehammers and a criminal record that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls. But he’s loyal as a junkyard dog and twice as mean when crossed. “Boss looks like hell.” he says, helping himself to coffee. “The missus giving you trouble?” You could say that.

I fill him in on the night’s discoveries. Barney listens without interrupting, occasionally grunting or shaking his head. When I finish, he’s quiet for a long moment. “So, what’s the play?” Information first. Can’t fight an enemy you don’t understand. I know a guy who knows a guy. Could get us everything on this Derek character by lunch.

Legal stuff only, Barn. I’m not looking to go to prison over this. “Course not, Boss. Just public records, social media, that kind of thing. Amazing what people put online these days.” By noon, Barney’s back with a folder thick as a phone book. Derek DeVaal, age 42, divorced twice. Currently renting a lake house on the expensive side of town.

Drives a black F-150 Raptor. Works as a security consultant for various companies. Which means he gets paid to look intimidating in expensive suits. “Guy’s got a type.” Barney says, flipping through printouts. Both ex-wives were married when he met them. Seems to enjoy the challenge. What else? “Gym rat.

” Posts workout videos on Instagram like he’s training for the Olympics. Real meathead stuff. Lots of flexing. Lots of protein shake selfies. “Anything useful?” “Maybe.” He’s got a standing reservation at Mickey’s bar every Friday night. Likes to hold court, buy drinks for whoever will listen to his war stories. Mickey’s bar. I know it well.

Used to go there with Jessica back when we were happy. Or when I thought we were happy. “There’s more.” Barney continues. “Your wife ain’t his first conquest in town. Remember Linda Patterson? Married to that accountant, Tom? Word is Duke worked his magic on her last year before moving on to greener pastures.” Linda Patterson.

I remember her from the 4th of July barbecue, hanging all over some muscle-bound guy while her husband looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. That must have been Derek. How many others? At least three that I can confirm. Guy’s like a tornado. Leaves a trail of broken marriages and doesn’t look back. My phone buzzes. Text from Jessica.

Can we talk? I’m at Chloe’s. Chloe Martinez, Jessica’s best friend and partner in crime. If there’s gossip to be spread or drama to be stirred, Chloe’s in the middle of it. She runs the town’s most popular Instagram account documenting every scandal and social event like she’s reporting for CNN. “Tell you what, Barn.

Take the afternoon off. I’ve got some reconnaissance to do.” “Want back up?” “Not yet, but stick close to your phone.” I drive over to Chloe’s house, a perfectly manicured suburban nightmare with more lawn ornaments than a miniature golf course. Jessica’s Honda’s in the driveway next to Chloe’s white BMW. The one she bought with her divorce settlement after catching her ex-husband with his secretary.

Through the window, I can see them on the couch. Tissues scattered around like confetti. The grieving wife and her supportive friend, no doubt crafting the narrative that’ll make Jessica the victim in all this. I don’t go in. Instead, I park down the street and wait. 20 minutes later, a black F-150 Raptor pulls up.

Derek DeVall climbs out. And I get my first good look at the man who’s been sleeping with my wife. He’s exactly what I expected. 6’2″, shoulders like a linebacker. The kind of tan that comes from gym sessions under UV lights. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off biceps the size of Christmas hams and jeans that probably cost more than my truck payment.

He walks up to Chloe’s door like he owns the place. Through the window I watch Jessica jump up and run into his arms. They kiss like teenagers, all tongues and groping hands, while Chloe watches with the hungry expression of someone who lives vicariously through other people’s drama. I take pictures, lots of them.

Derek stays for an hour. When he leaves Jessica goes with him. They climb into his truck, her hand on his thigh, his hand on her ass. More pictures. I follow them to the lake house, a sprawling modern monstrosity that screams compensation for something. They disappear inside and I settle in to wait again. This is what 18 years of marriage gets you, sitting in your truck watching your wife screw another man through expensive windows, documenting your own humiliation one photograph at a time.

But here’s the thing about humiliation, it’s only temporary. Revenge, done right, lasts forever. My phone rings. It’s Mrs. Keene, the 70-year-old busybody who lives next door and considers neighborhood surveillance in her civic duty. Eddie, dear, I hope you don’t mind me calling. Not at all, Mrs. Keene.

What can I do for you? Well, it’s about Jessica. I’ve been seeing that man with the black truck coming around when you’re at work. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but with him there again today You did the right thing calling me. I just think a wife should be more careful about appearances, you know? People talk.

Yes, ma’am, they certainly do. After I hang up I sit in the gathering dusk and think about appearances, about how Jessica’s always been so concerned with what people think. So careful to maintain her image as the perfect wife with the perfect life. That concern is going to be her downfall. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in 18 years of construction work, it’s that the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

And the more perfect someone pretends to be, the more spectacular their collapse when the truth comes out. Jessica wants to play games? Fine, but she’s about to learn that dumb contractor she married has been paying attention all these years. And I’ve gotten very good at building things. Time to build her a nightmare.

Friday night at Mickey’s bar and Derek Duval is holding court like he’s some kind of conquering hero. He’s got a corner booth surrounded by admirers. Mostly younger guys who probably think muscles equal wisdom. And a few women who eye him like he’s dessert. I’m at the bar nursing a beer and listening to him tell war stories that sound suspiciously like scenes from action movies.

Barney’s at a table nearby playing pool and keeping an ear open. “So there I was in the Middle East.” Derek’s saying, “surrounded by insurgents. Nothing but my sidearm and my training.” I’ve heard this story before. It was the plot of a Steven Seagal movie from the 90s. But his audience is eating it up. Especially the blonde in the low-cut top who keeps touching his arm and giggling at everything he says.

“You believe this guy?” the bartender mutters refilling my beer. “Been coming in here for months. Same stories every time.” “Takes all kinds.” I say. Derek’s voice carries across the room. “The thing about married women is they appreciate a real man. Someone who knows how to take charge, you know? These suburban husbands, they get soft.

Stop appreciating what they’ve got.” Several people laugh. I grip my beer bottle a little tighter. “Like this one I’m seeing now.” he continues. “Married to some construction worker. Nice enough guy, I’m sure, but no fire. No passion. She tells me he hasn’t touched her in months.” That’s a lie.

We made love just 2 weeks ago. Or at least I thought we did. Maybe for Jessica it was just going through the motions. “What’s her name?” the blonde asks. “Jessica. Beautiful woman. Works in HR. Way too good for the life she’s living. Isn’t that cheating?” someone asks. Derek shrugs. “I’m not married, and if her husband can’t keep her satisfied, that’s on him.

More laughter. I finish my beer and signal for another. Besides, Derek continues, it’s not like it’s serious. I mean, what would I want with a married woman long-term? But for now, she’s educational. The way he says it, like Jessica’s some kind of training exercise, makes my vision go red around the edges. Educational how? The blonde presses.

Let’s just say married women are grateful for attention. Very grateful. They’ll do things their husbands never dreamed of asking for. The table erupts in crude laughter. I set my beer down carefully and turn around. Excuse me, I say walking over to their table. Derek, right? He looks up annoyed at the interruption.

Yeah, do I know you? Eddie Malloy. I think we have a mutual friend. Recognition dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by amusement. Well, well, the construction worker. That’s right. Mind if I sit? Actually, we’re kind of in the middle of something here. I bet you are. Sounds like you were telling these folks about your girlfriend, Jessica.

The table goes quiet. Derek’s jaw tightens, but he’s still smiling. The kind of smile a shark gives right before it bites. She’s not my girlfriend, just a friend with benefits. Benefits, that’s one way to put it. Look, pal, I don’t want any trouble, but if you can’t keep your wife happy, that’s not my problem. You’re right.