Every stoplight, every pedestrian, every familiar corner reminded me how ordinary everything looked, and yet, nothing was ordinary anymore.

The house was waiting for me like a trap. Ethan had rehearsed this life, and now I was seeing the first cracks—not the faint ones, but wide, unavoidable fissures.

When I pulled up to the driveway, I didn’t go inside. Instead, I sat for a long time, engine off, staring at the curtained windows, imagining him pacing again, rehearsing lies and alibis, plotting a timeline I had only begun to decode.

I called Natalie back. “We need a plan,” I said, the words sharper now, steadier. “I can’t just sit and wait for Friday.

He’s moving fast. Faster than I realized.”

“Okay,” she said calmly. “Step one is secure your access to everything you legally control. Passwords, accounts, documents, the works. Step two—we document. Every email, every transaction, every notice that could be used to establish intent or concealment.”

I shivered slightly. The thought of gathering proof felt clinical, like I was cataloging betrayal. But the clarity it gave me was addictive.

“And Friday?” I asked. “What do we do Friday?”

“Friday,” she repeated, “is when you move. Not him. You take control before he can.”

I pictured the morning. Him smiling, acting sick, thinking he had the upper hand. I would need to be everywhere at once—bank, county office, notary. Every step anticipated. No room for hesitation.