Phone rang at 11:47 p.m. while I was under the hood of a busted Chevy, grease coating my knuckles like war paint. Mr. Mallerie, this is Dr. Martinez from Harbor Health Clinic. Your test results came back positive for chlamyia. I dropped my wrench. It clattered against the concrete floor of my garage, the sound echoing like a firecracker in the silence.

That’s impossible, I said, wiping my hands on my coveralls. I’ve been married for 18 years. I’m sorry, Eddie. The tests don’t lie. You’ll need to inform your partner and come in for treatment. Celia was on another business trip, third one this month. I stared at the note she’d left on the kitchen counter. Gone for the weekend. Don’t wait up. Love, see.

The handwriting looked rushed. Guilty. My stomach twisted into knots as the pieces clicked together like a puzzle I’d been too stupid to solve. I called Tank at the boxing gym. You awake, Eddie? Christ, it’s midnight. What’s wrong? I need to hire someone. A private investigator. You know anybody? Tank was quiet for a moment.

Frankie Duca used to be a cop before he got kicked off the force for drinking. He’s good at finding things people don’t want found. But Eddie, you sure you want to go down this road? I’m already on it. Frankie met me at Rosy’s Diner the next morning. He looked exactly like what Central casting would order for a washed up Private Johnson.

stubbled face, coffee stained shirt, eyes that had seemed too much. “So, your wife’s cheating?” he said, stirring sugar into his third cup of coffee. “How long you been suspicious?” “About 12 hours.” I told him about the clinic call, the business trips, the way Celia had been dressing differently lately. Designer clothes, expensive perfume, new lingerie I never got to see her wear.

“Could be nothing,” Frankie said. But his tone suggested otherwise. “Could be everything. My rate is 300 a day plus expenses. You want me to follow her? I want you to find the truth. That was Tuesday. By Friday, Frankie called with results. Mimi at the marina. Bring a strong stomach. He handed me a Manila envelope thick with photographs and a stack of DVDs.

The first photo showed Celia walking into the Seaside Motel with Grant Hullman, the town’s Golden Boy insurance agent. Grant was married to Susan, a sweet woman who volunteered at the animal shelter. They had two kids. There’s more. Frankie said, “Your wife’s been busy. Real busy.” The photos told the story. Celia with Grant.

Celia with Tom Bradley from the bank. Celia with Dr. Peterson, our family physician. All of them married. All of them respectable pillars of our small New England community. The DVDs are worse, Frankie warned. Your wife’s best friend, Mona, has been filming some of these encounters. Looks like she’s got a whole collection.

Mona Pierce, Pilates instructor, social butterfly. The woman my wife spent every Thursday evening with, supposedly doing yoga and drinking wine. The woman who’d been in my house countless times eating my food, smiling at my face while stabbing me in the back. Why would she film it? Blackmail, or just kicks.

Some people get off on other people’s misery. Frankie lit a cigarette. What you going to do, Eddie? I stared out at the harbor, watching the fishing boats bob in the gray morning light. This town had been my home for 43 years. I’d grown up here, met Celia here, raised our kids, Jack and Lucy, here.

I’d fixed half the cars in town, coached little league, paid my taxes, and minded my own business. I thought I was respected. Turns out I was just the last to know I was the town joke. I’m going to make them pay. Saturday morning, I went to Kinko’s and printed every photo. Highresolution glossy paper. I wanted them to see every detail.

Then I went home and got to work. I taped the photos to every surface in our house. kitchen cabinets, bathroom mirrors, the refrigerator, the front door. I printed out text messages Frankie had somehow obtained. Dirty explicit conversations between my wife and her lovers. I laminated those and hung them from the ceiling fan in our bedroom like a perverted mobile.

The piece to resistance was the front yard. I bought a dozen yard signs, the kind people use for garage sales, and mounted the most damning photos on poster board. My wife spread eagle in our marital bed with Grant Hullman. My wife on her knees in what looked like Tom Bradley’s office. My wife and Dr.

Peterson in positions that definitely weren’t medical. I arranged them like a gallery exhibition across our front lawn, then packed a bag and drove to Tank’s gym to wait. Mrs. Puit called Celia first. Our 70-year-old neighbor was the town’s unofficial news network, and she’d struck gold. Celia, dear, you need to get home right now.

There’s quite a situation. I watched from my car across the street as Celia’s BMW pulled into our driveway. She sat frozen behind the wheel for a full minute, staring at the display. Neighbors had gathered on their porches and sidewalks, pointing and whispering. Some were taking pictures with their phones.

When Celia finally got out of her car, her face was white as bone. She stumbled toward the front door, then stopped when she saw the photos taped there. Her scream could be heard three blocks away. Eddie, Eddie, where are you? I started my engine and drove away. In my rearview mirror, I could see her frantically tearing down the yard signs while Mrs.

Puit and half the neighborhood watched. My phone started ringing immediately. Celia’s ringtone. Stand by your man by Tammy Wette. I’d programmed it as a joke years ago. Now it sounded like a funeral. Durge. I let it go to voicemail. Tank let me sleep on the couch in his office above the gym. The place smelled like sweat, leather, and broken dreams.

But it felt more like home than the house I’d shared with Celia for 15 years. You really stirred up the hornets’s nest,” Tank said Monday morning, handing me coffee in the local newspaper. The headline read, “Local scandal rocks harbor view community. There was a photo of our house with the yard signs blurred out, but everyone in town knew what they showed.

My phone had 67 missed calls from Celia, 23 from my son Jack, and 15 from my daughter Lucy.” The voicemails started apologetic and turned increasingly hostile. Dad, what the heck is wrong with you? Lucy’s voice was shrill with teenage indignation. Mom made a mistake, but you’re destroying our family. Everyone at school is talking about it.

I can’t even show my face. Jack was more direct. You’re pathetic, Dad. Mom says you’re having a breakdown. Maybe you should check yourself into a mental hospital before you hurt someone. That one stung. My own kids choosing their cheating mother over their humiliated father. But it also clarified things. This wasn’t just about Celia anymore.

This was about respect, about showing everyone in this town that Eddie Mallerie wasn’t going to roll over and play dead. Grant Holman called Tuesday afternoon. Eddie, we need to talk manto man. I’m listening. Meet me at the marina. Pier 7 and Eddie, come alone. I almost laughed. Grant thought this was some kind of movie where the wronged husband and the pretty boy lover would have a civilized conversation and work things out like gentlemen.

He had no idea who he was dealing with. Grant was waiting by his boat when I arrived. A 30-foot cabin cruiser called Golden Dreams. Everything about Grant was golden. His hair, his tan, his smile, his reputation. He’d been prom king, star quarterback, and now he sold insurance to half the town while screwing their wives.

Eddie, I’m glad you came. He extended his hand like we were old friends meeting for drinks. I know this is awkward, but I think we can work this out. I ignored his hand. Work what out exactly? Look what happened between Celia and me, it just happened. We never meant for it to go this far. But what you did Saturday, putting those pictures everywhere, that was cruel.

Not just to Celia, but to our kids. To Susan. She’s filing for divorce. Good for her. She deserves better than a cheating piece of garbage. Grant’s golden smile flickered. I know you’re angry, but think about Lucy and Jack. They’re getting crucified at school because of your little stunt. Is that what you want? What I want is for people to know the truth about my wife and about you. The truth? Grant laughed.

But there was no humor in it. The truth is your wife was lonely, Eddie. When’s the last time you took her somewhere nice? Bought her flowers? Made her feel like a woman instead of a maid? Something hot and violent surged through my chest. So, it’s my fault. I’m just saying maybe if you’d paid more attention to your wife, she wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere for affection.

I grabbed Grant by his polo shirt and slammed him against the side of his boat. He was taller than me, but soft, pampered. I’d been swinging hammers and lifting engines for 25 years. He sold insurance and played golf. Let me tell you something, Grant. I worked 60our weeks to pay for that house, those cars, those clothes she’s wearing while she’s screwing you.

I coached my kids teams, fixed the neighbors cars for free, and never once cheated on my wife. So, don’t you dare tell me this is my fault. Eddie, calm down. People are watching. He was right. A few fishermen had stopped to stare. I loosened my grip, but didn’t let go. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay away from my wife.

You’re going to tell everyone in town that you pursued her, that she was the victim of your manipulation, and you’re going to write a check to Susan for whatever she asks for in the divorce. And if I don’t, I smiled, and Grant’s face went pale. Then those photos of you and Celia are going to every insurance company in New England, along with the ones of you and Mrs.

Henderson from the country club, and the ones of you and that college girl who works at the bank. Grant’s mouth fell open. How did you? Frankie’s very thorough. Turns out you’ve been a busy boy, Grant. Almost as busy as my wife. I released him and stepped back. Grant straightened his shirt with shaking hands. You’re making a mistake, Eddie. I have friends in this town.

Important friends. So did I. Until they started screwing my wife. Frankie’s investigation had uncovered more than just Celia’s affairs. It had revealed an entire network of infidelity running through Harbor Views upper crust like a cancer. The country club crowd, the town council members, the business leaders.

They were all connected in ways that would make a soap opera writer blush. It’s like a crazy key party from the 70s, Frankie said, spreading photos across his desk. Your wife was just one player in a much bigger game. The photos showed couples swapping partners at parties I’d never been invited to. Mona Pierce was in half of them, always watching, always recording.

She was the hub around which everything revolved. Mona’s the one pulling the strings. I realized she’s been blackmailing them. That’s my guess. She’s got dirt on everyone and they’re all too scared to cross her. Frankie pointed to a photo of Mona with Mayor Davidson’s wife. She’s building a power base. Information is currency and she’s rich as Cus.

What’s her endgame? Control. She wants to run this town from the shadows and she’s using seduction as her tool. I studied the photos, seeing my wife’s betrayal in a new light. Celia wasn’t just a cheating spouse. She was a pawn in Mona’s game. That didn’t excuse what she’d done, but it explained the scope of it.

I want everything you have on Mona Pierce. Eddie, this woman is dangerous. She’s destroyed lives, broken up families, ruined careers. If you go after her, she already went after me. She turned my wife into a tool and aimed her at my heart. Now it’s my turn. My former friends started avoiding me after the photo incident. 20 years of friendship evaporated overnight.

They crossed the street when they saw me coming, stopped talking when I entered Rosy’s diner and generally treated me like I had a contagious disease. It all came to a head Thursday night at Murphy’s bar. I walked in around 9 needing a beer and some normaly. The place went quiet like a saloon in an old western.

My usual crew, Dave, Tony, and Mike, were huddled around their regular table, but they didn’t wave me over. I ordered a Budweiser and sat at the bar. Behind me, I could hear whispered conversations and nervous laughter. Finally, Dave approached. Eddie, maybe you should drink somewhere else tonight. Dave Romano had been my best friend since high school.

I’d been best man at his wedding, godfather to his oldest son. We’d shared everything until now. Why is that, Dave? Come on, man. You know why? What you did to Celia was wrong. Way wrong. We all feel bad for you, but putting those pictures out there for the whole town to see. That’s not how you handle things. How should I have handled it? Quietly.

Let everyone keep laughing at me behind my back. You could have divorced her like a normal person. You didn’t have to humiliate her. I turned on my bar stool to face the room. Dave, Tony, Mike, and half a dozen other guys I’d known for decades were all staring at me like I was the villain in this story. Humiliate her.

I stood up, my voice carrying across the suddenly silent bar. She humiliated me. She humiliated our kids. She humiliated our marriage. I just made sure everyone knew about it. That’s not your call to make, Tony said. He was a big man, a construction foreman with hands like sledgehammers.

What happens between a husband and wife should stay between them. Even when the wife is screwing half the town, especially then, Mike chimed in. Mike owned the hardware store where I bought my tools. His wife Janet was one of Celia’s yoga buddies. You made all of us look bad, Eddie. Our wives are asking questions now, wondering if we’re all cheaters.