Valentina, letting herself into my home with a secondary key fob — one Damian must have made for her — over and over across those six months, on days I was at work, on days I was traveling, on days I had texted her from another city and she had texted back sweet and ordinary things while standing, it turned out, inside my apartment.

Forty times.

She had not merely been seeing my husband.

She had been coming and going from my home like it was hers, in my absence, with a key, while I told her about my week.

It was the texts that undid me, more than the number.

I went back through them, that night, with the camera logs open beside my phone, matching timestamps — and I found them.