She thought I wouldn’t know. She was wrong. My name is Tom Brandt. And 3 months ago, I thought I had the perfect marriage. Shows you what 41 years of living can teach a man about being spectacularly wrong. I’m sitting in my Honda Civic at 2:47 a.m. watching my wife Clara stumble out of the Marriott downtown with her boss, Julian Drake.

She’s laughing at something he whispered in her ear. The same laugh she used to save for my terrible dad jokes. Julian’s got his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward his matte black BMW like she’s made of porcelain instead of lies. The thing about being an IT auditor is that you develop a nose for inconsistencies.

When someone’s expense reports don’t add up. When their timestamps don’t match their alibis. When their story changes every time they tell it. Clara’s been setting off every alarm bell in my professional toolkit for weeks now. “Working late again, honey?” she’d said tonight. Kissing my cheek with lips that tasted like wine and guilt.

“Big presentation tomorrow. Don’t wait up.” I didn’t wait up. Instead, I drove downtown and parked across from her office building. The same building she’d supposedly been burning the midnight oil in. Funny how the lights were off on the 14th floor where Drake and Associates keeps their offices. My phone buzzes.

A text from Oscar Martinez, my programmer buddy who’s been helping me with what he calls operation cheating wife. Oscar’s got a conspiracy theory for everything. But when it comes to digital surveillance, the man’s a artist. “Audio relay working perfectly. You getting this?” Enlarge the tiny earpiece Oscar rigged up for me.

Clara’s voice comes through crystal clear, slightly breathless. “God, Julian, that was incredible. I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Jaws response makes my stomach turn. “Your husband’s never going to figure it out. Guy’s about as observant as a brick wall. I’ve heard enough. I start the Honda and pull out of the parking spot following the BMW at a distance.

Oscar taught me the basics of tailing someone without being spotted. Stay three cars back. Never follow directly behind. Use other vehicles as cover. The BMW heads toward Oak Park. Toward our neighborhood. My neighborhood. The place where I’ve been paying the mortgage for eight years while Clara climbs the corporate ladder at Drake and Associates.

They stop two blocks from our house in the parking lot of a 24-hour diner that’s been closed for renovation since COVID. Julian ends the engine but leaves the parking lights on. I pull behind a delivery truck and watch through my rearview mirror as they start going at it in the backseat like teenagers. My phone rings.

Oscar again. Tom, you there? The audio’s getting weird. Lots of movement sounds. Yeah, I’m here. And yeah, they’re busy. Man, I’m sorry. This has got to be ending you. The thing is it’s not ending me. Not the way you’d expect. I’m not crying or punching the steering wheel or having some kind of emotional breakdown.

Instead I’m calculating. Planning. My brain’s shifted into the same mode it goes into when I’m untangling a particularly complex financial fraud case. Clara thinks I’m predictable. She’s told her friends I’m boring. That I never surprise her. That I’m the human equivalent of beige wallpaper. What she doesn’t realize is that boring predictable guys like me have one major advantage.

Nobody sees us coming. I watched Julian’s BMW rock gently in the parking lot and smile for the first time in weeks. Oscar. remember that conversation we had about hypothetical revenge scenarios? The one where you said you’d never actually do anything crazy because you’re too responsible? Yeah, that one. I changed my mind.

Clara’s humming in the shower. Actually humming. She hasn’t hummed in our bathroom since Obama was president. But apparently a night of adultery has put a spring in her step. I’m making coffee and scrolling through her laptop, which she conveniently left open on the kitchen counter. Clara’s always been careless with technology.

She uses the same password for everything. Ambitious 2019. The year she got promoted to senior account executive. Her email’s a goldmine of indiscretion. Messages to her best friend Lacey Patterson, detailing every sordid encounter with Julian. Messages to Julian himself, planning their next business trip to Milwaukee.

And most interesting of all, a folder labeled plan B. That’s password protected with something other than her usual combination. I hear the shower turn off upstairs. Quickly, I plug in the USB drive Oscar gave me. A little device that copies everything without leaving a trace. While it works, I start breakfast.

Morning, sweetheart. Clara says, bouncing into the kitchen in her silk robe. She looks radiant. Glowing even. The kind of glow that comes from feeling desired by someone new and exciting. Morning. You’re up early for someone who worked so late. She doesn’t even flinch. Adrenaline from the presentation. We absolutely nailed it.

I’ll bet you did. How’s Julian handling the stress? He seemed pretty wound up at the company picnic last month. Oh, you know Julian. He’s got his ways of releasing tension. The USB finishes copying. I pocket it while Clara pours herself coffee. Tom, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should take a vacation soon. Get away somewhere. Just the two of us.

That sounds nice. Where were you thinking? I don’t know. Somewhere we’ve never been. Somewhere that might surprise you. She kisses my forehead and heads upstairs to get dressed. I wait until I hear her blow dryer then call Oscar. I’ve got her laptop contents. How soon can you crack a password-protected folder? It depends on the complexity.

Bring it over after work. And Tom, I’ve got some news about that audio surveillance we set up. Surrendered? Good news or bad news? Depends on your perspective. I recorded their entire conversation from last night, including the part where they discuss how they’re going to handle things if you ever get suspicious. My coffee suddenly tastes bitter.

What kind of handling? Let’s just say your wife’s got some creative ideas about gaslighting. She’s planning to make you think you’re paranoid. Maybe even suggest couples therapy to work through your trust issues. Clara comes back downstairs. Dressed in like the restaurant with one things like that. My laters Clara comes back downstairs dressed in like the wife of Ella Denches.

My joy the time life so far there if you make. I thought me the chief things clear for coffee. Let’s just say your wife’s renders back downstairs dressed in her power suit. The navy blue one that costs more than my car payment. She’s applied her makeup with extra care today. Probably hoping to catch Julian’s eye during their morning meeting.

I might be late again tonight, she says, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. We’re celebrating landing the Morrison account. The Morrison account? Shipping. She freezes for just a second. Did I say Morrison? I meant the Henderson account. God, I’m so scattered lately. There is no Henderson account. I know because I helped her prepare her year-end client review last December.

Every account, every contact, every commission structure. Clara is good at her job, but she’s terrible at lying. After she leaves, I call my boss, Ms. Patel, and tell her I need to take a personal day. Then I drive to Oscar’s apartment. Oscar lives in what used to be a nice neighborhood before the college kids moved in.

His place looks like a Radio Shack exploded in a computer lab. Cables everywhere, multiple monitors, and at least six different keyboards scattered across various surfaces. “Okay. Let’s see what we’re working with,” he says, plugging in my USB drive. While his programs run, Oscar shows me the audio equipment he’s assembled.

“I’ve upgraded our setup. This little beauty can record from up to 50 ft away, and it automatically uploads to a cloud server, so we don’t lose anything.” Is this legal? Recording conversations in public owned car, which is where I placed the transmitter, also legal. Recording conversations between your wife and her boss when they’re discussing your marriage, morally justified, legally gray, technically brilliant.

His computer chimes. “Got it. The plan B folder.” What we find makes my blood run cold. It’s not just evidence of the affair. It’s a comprehensive plan for destroying my reputation. Screenshots of fake dating profiles created in my name. Doctored photos that make it look like I’m the one cheating. Email drafts to my employer suggesting I’ve been embezzling client funds.

Jesus, Tom. She’s not just cheating on you. She’s planning to frame you. I sit back in Oscar’s gaming chair, trying to process what I’m seeing. Why would she go this far? Look at the file dates. She started building this stuff right after you got that promotion last year. The one that came with the salary bump.

>> Mhm. Be good money. But I make better money. In a divorce, she’d owe me alimony. But if I’m the cheating, embezzling husband, she keeps everything. She’s not just having an affair, I realize. She’s planning to destroy my life. Oscar nods grimly. The question is, what are you going to do about it? I look at the evidence spread across his monitors.

Photos, audio files, financial records, fake profiles. Everything I need to prove Clara’s deception. Everything I need to protect myself. And everything I need to make sure she regrets underestimating the boring, predictable husband. I’m going to audit her life, I say. And when I’m done, she’s going to wish she’d never learned my name.

Three days later, I’m in my car again, sitting in my car outside Drake and Associates, watching Clara and Julian through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their 14th floor conference room. They’re presenting to what looks like the entire company. Probably the fake Henderson account presentation Clara mentioned. My phone buzzes with a text from Oscar.

Ready when you are. You sure about this? Clara thinks she’s been so clever, building her case against me while carrying on her affair right under my nose. What she doesn’t know is that boring, methodical auditors are very good at building cases of our own. Do it, I text back. At exactly 2:30 p.m.

, during what appears to be Julian’s portion of the presentation, every screen in the Drake and Associates conference room goes black. Then, Clara’s voice fills the room, crystal clear through the building’s sound system. God, Lacy, you should see him in bed. Julian’s got this thing he does with his tongue that makes me forget my own name.

And the best part? My boring husband has no clue. Tom’s so predictable, so focused on his little spreadsheets and audit reports. He couldn’t spot an affair if I brought Julian home for dinner. Erupts in conference room, erupts in chaos. I can see people pointing at Clara, who’s gone white as paper. Julian’s frantically trying to reach the AV controls.

But Oscar’s locked him out of the system. Lacy’s voice joins the conversation. What if he finds out? And if he does, I’ve got a backup plan. I’ve been documenting some irregularities in his work. Financial stuff. If Tom ever tries to divorce me, I’ll make sure he loses everything. His job, his reputation, his precious moral high ground.

By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be lucky to get a job managing a McDonald’s. The audio cuts to a different conversation. Clara and Julian in his car, recorded just two nights ago. Julian, your husband called my office today asking about the Henderson account. There is no Henderson account, you idiot. I told you we needed to keep our story straight. Relax.