“Do you want me to compile this into a neat, high-resolution PDF?” David asked, his voice entirely devoid of pity, offering me the only thing I needed: ammunition.
“Every single timestamp,” I commanded.
Thirty minutes later, I didn’t draft an emotional manifesto. I didn’t pen a defensive essay. I simply uploaded fifteen pristine, unedited screenshots of their conversations directly to my social feeds. I tagged Ethan. I tagged Rebecca. I tagged Margaret. I tagged Lily.
No caption. Just the raw, unadulterated pathology of their deceit.
I hit ‘Publish’ and watched the internet cannibalize them. Within minutes, the tide reversed with brutal velocity. The same acquaintances who had pitied him were now expressing visceral disgust. Margaret’s post vanished into the ether. Lily deleted her account entirely.
I was pouring myself a celebratory glass of Cabernet when my security system app glowed crimson.
Motion Detected: Rear Patio Door.
I opened the live camera feed. It was 11:18 p.m. Ethan was standing in the darkness of my backyard, his face contorted in a mask of feral panic, a heavy metal tire iron gripped tightly in his right hand.
Chapter 3: The Flail
I stood motionless in the darkened kitchen, the blue light of the security feed painting my face. On the small screen, Ethan struck the reinforced glass of the sliding door with the tire iron.
Thwack. The impact was dull, the impact-resistant glass holding firm, but the intent was screamingly clear. He was cornered, publicly humiliated by his own leaked words, and his curated façade was disintegrating. He struck the glass again, shouting something unintelligible into the night air.
