CHAP 2 — THE OLD IPAD
At 2:31 a.m., I locked myself in the bathroom and began taking pictures of my husband’s life.
Not the life he showed me.
The other one.
The life behind passcodes, deleted threads and shared folders.
I used my phone to photograph the iPad screen because I did not trust myself to understand what could be remotely erased.
Then I remembered something from work.
I was a benefits analyst. I was not a forensic investigator, but I had spent enough time around compliance people to know one rule mattered more than panic:
Preserve first. Interpret later.
I connected the iPad charger.
I turned off Bluetooth.
I switched off Wi-Fi long enough to think.
Then I turned Wi-Fi back on and sent screenshots to a private email account Jason did not know I still had.
My college account.
The one I had used before we met.
I uploaded everything to cloud storage.
Then I changed the password.
After that, I kept digging.
The visible messages with Amber were bad enough.
But the Files app was worse.
Jason had a folder labeled RED CREEK.
Inside were PDFs.
Invoices.
Bank screenshots.
A spreadsheet.
The spreadsheet contained dates, amounts and initials.
JC.
JM.
AC.
RB.
I assumed JM was Jason Miller.
AC was almost certainly Amber Collins.
But JC and RB meant nothing to me.
One column was labeled “R.”
Another was labeled “House.”
Another said “Phase 2.”
My hands were cold.
I opened a PDF.
RED CREEK CONSULTING LLC
Professional Services Invoice
$18,500
The client was Jason’s employer, Whitmore Commercial Construction.
I stared at Amber’s name on the payment instructions.
Member: Amber Collins.
My best friend had an LLC.
I had never heard of it.
The second invoice was $27,000.
The third was $42,000.
All for “site coordination consulting.”
Amber worked in pharmaceutical sales.
She had never worked in construction.
I photographed everything.
Then I found a note in Jason’s handwriting app.
MONDAY:
Call bank
confirm HE packet
A signs
R out?
Move 35 RC
Delete old tablet
I read it three times.
HE packet.
Home equity?
A signs.
Amber?
R out?
Rachel out?
Delete old tablet.
My pulse jumped.
The device in my hands had been scheduled for destruction.
I nearly dropped it.
A knock sounded against the bathroom door.
“Rachel?”
Jason.
I locked the screen.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking off my makeup.”
Silence.
Then, “For forty minutes?”
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My face was pale.
My eyes looked enormous.
“I cried.”
Another silence.
His voice softened.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“I said no.”
The handle moved.
Locked.
Jason exhaled.
“Amber’s going to sleep. I think we need to talk.”
“We already did.”
“Not like this.”
I looked down at the iPad.
Not like this.
He meant not while I still had control over myself.
Not before he could rewrite the night.
Not before he could decide which version of the truth I was allowed to hear.
“I’m exhausted,” I said.
“Fine. We talk in the morning.”
His footsteps retreated.
I waited three minutes.
Then five.
Then ten.
I opened the browser history.
Most of it was ordinary.
Construction material pricing.
Football.
Restaurants.
Then:
Texas home equity loan spouse signature requirements.
Joint owner quitclaim Texas.
Can spouse claim separate property contribution to marital home Texas.
How to prove abandonment marriage Texas.
My stomach tightened.
He had searched all four topics within the previous month.
The affair was no longer the most frightening part of the night.
Jason had been researching what happened to our house if I left.
I returned to Messages.
This time, I searched my own name.
Rachel.
More than three hundred results.
Most were from relatives and normal conversations.
But the Amber thread contained dozens.
AMBER:
Rachel asked why the repair account is low.
JASON:
I handled it.
AMBER:
She’s not stupid.
JASON:
She wants the marriage too much.
A week later:
AMBER:
What happens after the wedding?
JASON:
We stick to the plan.
AMBER:
And if she won’t sign?
JASON:
She will once she thinks she’s the one ending it.
My body went numb.
There it was.
Not a drunken mistake.
Not an old love resurfacing.
A plan.
I kept scrolling.
Then I reached a message from eleven days earlier.
AMBER:
I hate what we’re doing to her.
JASON:
Then remember what’s waiting at the end.
AMBER:
You said no one gets hurt.
JASON:
No one is getting hurt. Rachel gets her clean divorce. We get the house deal and the company money gets fixed. Everybody walks away.
Company money.
Gets fixed.
I suddenly understood why some numbers in the Red Creek spreadsheet matched the strange shortages in our joint account.
Jason was moving money through multiple places.
Some of it might be ours.
Some of it might belong to his employer.
I searched email.
The old iPad’s mail app was still connected.
That was where I found the document that changed everything.
Subject:
Preliminary Home Equity Closing Package — Miller/Bennett Residence
Attached was a loan application for $168,000 against our house.
Borrowers:
Jason Andrew Miller.
Rachel Elizabeth Bennett Miller.
My name.
My income.
My Social Security number partially masked.
My employer.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
I zoomed in.
The signature looked like mine.
Close enough to fool someone who did not see me sign things every day.
But I knew the shape of my own R.
This one was wrong.
A note from the loan officer said:
Need spouse to sign final disclosures Monday. Jason advised spouse currently traveling but will make arrangements.
Traveling.
On Monday, I was supposed to be at work ten miles from the bank.
Unless Jason planned to make sure I was somewhere else.
R out?
My lungs tightened.
I photographed the application.
Then I sent it to my private account.
The time was 3:46 a.m.
Outside the bathroom, my wedding house was silent.
I opened the door.
Jason was not in our bedroom.
The hallway light was off.
I walked to the guest room.
The door was closed.
I did not open it.
I did not need to.
Instead, I returned to the bedroom and packed one suitcase.
Jeans.
Work clothes.
Underwear.
Toiletries.
Laptop.
Passport.
Birth certificate.
The folder containing the paperwork showing the money my parents had gifted specifically toward the home purchase.
Then I removed my wedding ring.
For a moment, I held it in my palm.
It was beautiful.
A thin platinum band beside the engagement ring Jason had chosen.
Yesterday it had felt like a promise.
Now it felt like evidence of how badly I had wanted to believe him.
I placed both rings on the nightstand.
Then I picked up the iPad.
Before leaving, I took one last photograph.
Rose petals.
Champagne.
My rings.
The empty half of the bed.
At 4:38 a.m., I walked out of my house.
No confrontation.
No note.
No goodbye.
I drove north while the sky was still black.
At 5:12 a.m., my phone began ringing.
Jason.
I let it ring.
Again.
Again.
Then Amber.
I ignored her too.
At 5:27, Jason texted.
WHERE ARE YOU?
At 5:28:
Rachel, stop this. Come home.
At 5:31:
We need to talk before you make this worse.
I looked at the iPad on the passenger seat.
For once, Jason was right.
May you like
Things could get much worse.
Just not for me.
