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A blonde woman in designer athleisure stepped into frame carrying a leather tote. She pulled out a tire iron and smashed my windows one by one without hesitation. Then she scratched the hood, spray-painted the windshield, tore apart the baby seat, and—God help me—took selfies with the wreckage, smiling.
She turned just enough for me to see her face.
Brittany Kane.
My husband’s assistant.
My husband’s mistress.
The words didn’t hurt because they shocked me. They hurt because they confirmed everything I had tried not to understand.
Detective Morrison asked again, “Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I said. “She works for my husband.”
I called Derek right there in the garage.
His first words weren’t, “Are you okay?”
They weren’t, “Is the baby okay?”
They weren’t even, “What happened?”
He said, “Where are you? I got a weird call from hospital security.”
That was the moment something inside the marriage died.