Husband Accidentally Found Out About His Wife's Infidelity And Released His Horrible Revenge.

Around 2 a.m. Aside from a few dim lights scattered through the hallways, the place was mostly dark. In my cramped 10x10 cell, lying flat on my back with my hands tucked behind my head, I stared at the shadows dancing around me. I should have been sleeping, but my mind was churning through memories I’d rather forget. Then I heard footsteps. I started counting: 7, 8, 9, 10. There he was. His face was set in a hard, emotionless mask, same as all the others here. He was just doing his job, making his rounds without looking for

any connection or conversation. I didn’t know if he saw me lying there or not, but it didn’t matter; he was on the outside, and I was in here. As he moved past my cell, I stopped counting—no use keeping track. He wouldn’t be back for another hour and a half anyway. I turned my gaze to the ceiling, thinking about what I’d do once I got out: 5 days left, then I’d be done for good. I’d served 7 months of a one-year sentence, and my job was waiting on me. But everything else would be different. My older

brother, Luke, had kept my car running, managed my bills, and kept a watch on my dwindling bank account. Was I angry? Angry doesn’t even touch it, but I learned to bury those feelings—at least until I was out. It’s obvious why guys doing 10, 20 years walk out with hollow eyes; humanity is one of the first things to go in here. This place was tainted compared to the high-security facility upstate, but still, you had to keep your head down to survive. I closed my eyes, hoping for a few hours of sleep, wishing for the darkness of

my old bedroom—the one with blackout shades. I’ll be picked up next Tuesday, Luke had told me that last week in the visitor center. We talked through a plexiglass wall, hopefully for the last time. “Anything special you want to eat on your first night out?” he’d asked with a grin. “A steak! Big one, medium rare,” I replied. He laughed. “Anthony, you’re easy! Thought you’d give me a real challenge for sneaking past Beth.” Luke said I’d be staying with him and his wife, Beth, until I got settled. My house barely had any food or furniture left, so

this would give me time to regroup. “It’s not the Ritz, but it’s clean, and you can come and go as you please,” he added with a smile. I didn’t smile back. “Thanks,” I started to say, but he cut me off. “Forget it; we’re family. That’s what family does.” Luke knew what it meant to me. “Don’t worry about Mom and Dad,” he continued. “They’ll come around once things settle down.” But we both knew that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. “Seen my kids?” I’d asked two weekends ago at Mom and Dad’s. He replied, “Nora looks about the same,

but Jack’s got one of those trendy bow cuts.” “Awful,” I told him so myself. Luke laughed, but the story wasn’t as lighthearted for me. “You know what?” he said. “He told me I wasn’t his dad, so he didn’t have to listen.” I nearly smacked him, but Mom was there. “You’re going to have your hands full with him.” Jack wouldn’t dare say something like that to me. My son and daughter would stay with Sarah once I got out, but I wasn’t in a rush to press things. The divorce was finalized, but I still owned half the

house, and she owed me close to $65,000 to buy me out. She probably cleared out the safety deposit box, grabbing the CDs and bonds, but I had a list on file with my lawyer to handle that. Cathy and that ex-friend of mine, Tom, had done a real number on me, but I wasn’t getting blindsided again. Lying there, I went back over the past, preparing myself for whatever came next. As soon as I got out of this place, I’d start building a new life. This nightmare would be in the past, and I’d move on no matter

how long it took. Before I ended up here, life was good—or so I thought. A few weeks before everything went south, a couple of friends had hinted at things I brushed off. They probably thought I knew or was okay with it. It hit me now that no one wanted to get involved. We had 12 years together, two kids, a decent house, and steady jobs. Sure, we had our spats, but I loved Sarah and never imagined she’d betray me. We weren’t the social butterflies of the neighborhood; just a few couples we hung out with, most married

for over seven years like us, all with kids. Tom and his wife, Brenda, didn’t have kids, though they’d been trying for ages. Sarah probably knew the details, but I kept out of other people’s lives. Brenda’s drinking had started up about a year ago. At first, she was just quiet and reserved, but things turned ugly fast. Tom, who barely drank himself, always ended up taking care of her. “Tom, honey, get me another drink,” she’d start, only to end the night demanding drinks with Tom having to practically carry her home. It was sad, but it wasn’t my

problem. “That was a mess with Brenda,” I’d muttered to Sarah once as we were getting ready for bed. “She passed out a couple times. I think Greg and Jenna probably left early because she was hitting on Greg, asking him to help her out of her clothes.” Sarah just shook her head. “She’s a wreck over not having kids, but blaming Tom isn’t going to solve anything,” I told her. “They could adopt, but she refuses to hear it. She’s convinced it’s Tom’s fault.” They’ll either fix it... "Or call it quits," I said, already dreading the next dinner

out with them. "I'll try talking to her this week," Sarah said with a touch of hope. "Maybe she'll cool it for at least one night." But Brenda didn't cool it. "Waiter, how's a girl supposed to get a drink around here?" she hollered, slurring her words. She was already starting in on Tom, and he was at his breaking point, so I stepped in. "Come on, Brenda, you promised me a dance," I said, leading her to the dance floor. She tried to protest, but I didn't give her the choice. I danced with her through three songs while

Sarah stayed back to talk to Tom, who looked exhausted near the hallway. Brenda muttered something about needing the restroom and wandered off. After a few minutes, I debated what to do and asked two women going in to check on her. "Is she wearing a bright yellow dress?" one of them asked, peeking out of the restroom. When I nodded, she shook her head. "She passed out in a stall," she said. "If you want, I'll stand guard while you get her." I went in, propped Brenda up by the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. She

came to for a moment but then slumped again. Practically carrying her, I made my way back to the table, where Tom looked both humiliated and furious. "Tom, let me help you get her to the car," I offered. "She's out cold and won't wake up anytime soon." As I held up a very drunk Brenda, Tom looked at me, embarrassed. "Anthony, I've got it. Sit down. It's not the first time, but it'll be the last," he muttered. Despite his protests, I carried her to the car while he grabbed her purse and mumbled a brief goodbye. I laid

Brenda across the back seat, patted Tom's shoulder, and said, "I'm sorry, man." There wasn't much else to say. "Thanks for helping," he said, sounding defeated. "I'm at the end of my rope. I don't know what to do." "You two need some help—counseling maybe? Sarah and I are here if you need us," I replied, though I knew his answer was just polite agreement. I doubted they'd last another couple of months. As it turned out, I wasn't far off, but no one could have predicted the outcome. Three weeks later, just past 10:30 p.m. on a Thursday, we

heard sirens and saw bright lights at the end of our block. Sarah and I were both up, and she started to come outside, but I stopped her. "Stay here, Sarah. I'll check it out." Joining the crowd, I saw the fire department's rescue crew prying open the driver's side door of Tom's car. "Is Tom all right?" I asked a neighbor. "It's not Tom," she replied. "It's Brenda. They were arguing, and she grabbed his keys, ran out, and drove off. She didn't make it far before rear-ending a parked car at about 40 mph." The ambulance arrived, and

paramedics put Brenda on a stretcher, then drove off, with Tom following. The front door of their house was wide open, lights still on, and furniture scattered. I called Sarah, updated her, then went over and locked up for Tom, leaving a note that I had his keys. "How's Brenda?" Sarah asked when I got home. I shook my head. "Not good. She wasn't wearing a seatbelt and swerved before she hit the car. The airbag deployed, but she hit her head against the window hard enough to shatter it. She was doing around 35 mph. Tom's with her at

the hospital; we'll wait to visit tomorrow. He's dealing with enough tonight." We went to bed but barely slept, worrying gnawing at us. At 11:00 a.m. the next day, my phone rang and Sarah's voice was frantic on the other end. "Anthony, Brenda's on life support. Tom's a wreck, and someone needs to be there. I'm leaving work; meet me at the hospital." On my way there, I grabbed some food for us and called Sarah's parents to ask if they could pick up our kids after school. In the hospital waiting room, Sarah and others were gathered around Tom,

trying to console him. "How is she?" I whispered to Sarah. She shook her head grimly. "Not good," she replied. "The doctor told Tom there's minimal brain activity, and he's been quiet since." I sat next to Tom. "Are you doing okay?" I asked, knowing it was a poor choice of words. "She's not going to wake up, Anthony," he said, his voice hoarse. "The doctor asked if I'd consider taking her off life support, but how can I do that? She's my wife, not a machine to turn off." He was shouting now, grief and frustration spilling out. "Why

can't they fix her? Isn't that what doctors are for?" Just then, Brenda's parents arrived and went into her room with Tom. There was a lot of crying, accusations, and anger. Her father blamed Tom for her condition, unable to see beyond his heartbreak. About 20 minutes later, the doctor came out with Brenda's parents, who were devastated. They'd never be able to speak to their daughter again. We left the hospital that evening, picked up the kids, and went home, both shaken. I kept thinking, I hope I never have to make that decision for Sarah or anyone I

love. Two days later, surrounded by Tom, Brenda's parents, and the doctor, they turned off the life support machine, and Brenda passed away quietly. We stayed to comfort Tom as best we could. Whatever her flaws, Brenda had been loved, and now she was gone. At her funeral, people only spoke of the good memories. Tom took it hard, retreating from everything. He took a month off to go back east, and I assured him I'd keep an eye on things while he was gone. He was away one night while we were getting ready for bed. I hugged Sarah

and said, "You know I love you, right?" The past few weeks had worn on us both, and the tragedy was still fresh. "If I ever end up like Brenda, just let me go. I wouldn't want to be kept alive by machines." "Don't talk like that, Anthony," she said, shaking her head. "That could never happen to us." A few weeks later, Tom returned. Sarah helped him go through Brenda's belongings, and after three months, he seemed to be on the mend. We invited him to social gatherings and even helped set him up on a few dates, though

nothing really took off. Life started moving on again, or so we thought. Six months later, Tom finally seemed like himself—laughing and socializing with us. It was good to see him finding joy again, a small piece of peace after such a painful time. Looking back, maybe I missed some signs. Sarah and I were still close, and things between us hadn't changed in some ways, but there was something different. After a few months, I finally asked if something was bothering her. "Nothing really, Anthony. Why do you ask?" she replied, a bit too casually. "You just seem a

little distant lately." "Everything's fine," she smiled. "Maybe you just haven't been getting enough attention. If you want more, just ask." She laughed and used a word I'd never heard from her before: "love-making." I shook off the odd feeling, kissed her, and tried to push it out of my mind. But I'll never forget Friday, August 20th. That day was when my world unraveled. Sarah called me at work, saying the kids would be with her parents for the weekend and asked when I'd be home. "I'll make sure I'm back early," I told her, and she didn't ask

for anything specific—just to let her know when I'd arrive. It was 3:30, about an hour and a half until I could leave, but my mind was racing, imagining a quiet weekend together. I drove home carefully, keeping an eye on the speed limit but still making it in a record 28 minutes. I should have noticed something was off when I saw two cars in the driveway—one of them Tom's. "Hey, honey, I'm home!" I called out. Tom and Sarah were in the kitchen, and something in the air felt heavy. "Hey, Tom," I said slowly. "What's going on?"

"Anthony, I need to talk to you. Please have a seat," Sarah said, her voice unsteady. I stayed standing, crossing my arms. "I'd rather stand." "Anthony, I wanted you to hear it from me before you get the papers confused," I replied. "What papers?" "Sarah..." She took a shaky step back. "Divorce papers," she murmured. My heart thudded painfully as I tried to make sense of it. "What are you talking about? Divorce papers?" I shot a glare at Tom. "You should leave, Tom. This is between me and my wife." But then a realization hit me as I looked

at her, then back at him. "Tom, get out now!" "Anthony, this involves him too," she insisted. I clenched my fists, anger flaring. "Tom, if you don't leave now, you'll leave in a body bag!" He shot me a nervous glance before heading for the door. "Sarah, you and I need to talk." "Now there's nothing to talk about, Anthony," she replied. "I'm in love with Tom. I'm sorry." My voice shook with fury. "How long has this been going on?" "Even before Brenda passed," Tom cut in, his tone cold. "You don't know anything, Anthony." "Oh, I know enough.

While I was consoling you, you were with my wife!" I spat. "Get out of my house, both of you!" "Anthony, it's my house too," Sarah argued. "Not anymore! Get out!" I shouted. She looked at me and finally said, "Fine. I'll come back for my things when you've calmed down." "You'll be dead by then," I muttered as they left. After they were gone, I lost it. A couple of beers and some broken furniture later, the house looked as torn up as I felt. I gathered up all of Sarah's belongings, threw them on the lawn, and turned

the sprinklers on for four hours. Then I locked up, had a few more beers, and drank until I couldn't think. The next morning, her things were gone. I was still simmering with anger and didn't reach out to anyone, though I was sure the neighbors knew by then. I called Sarah's mom to ask about the kids, but she was cold. "Sarah already picked them up last night, Frank. Don't play games!" "She was here picking up her things! Now let me talk to my kids!" She hung up on me, and when I called back, she didn't answer.

Furious, I canceled every credit card we shared and withdrew as much cash as I could from the bank. I made myself some coffee, ate, and thought through my plan for the day: change the garage code, install new locks, and move anything valuable over to Luke's place. Just as I was about to leave, the doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, I saw a man holding a large envelope. He waited a few minutes, then left. I called Luke and his wife Beth, explained what had happened, and asked them to keep it quiet. Then I went to Home

Depot for new locks. On my way back, I saw Tom's car in my driveway, with Sarah loading things into it. My anger got the best of me. Instead of passing by, I floored it, screeching into the driveway and ramming into the back of his car. He scrambled inside just as I hit his car, pushing it against the closed garage door. I reversed, backed up about 15 feet, and ran it again, smashing his car through the door. Steam rose from under my hood, and my engine groaned, but I managed to back up again, this time with

only a few feet between us, before my car stalled. Heart pounding, I grabbed an aluminum bat from the garage and started swinging, shattering the windows and windshield. I was about to rip open Tom's door when loud voices shouted behind me, "Drop the bat and put your hands on your head!" I complied, dropping the bat and kneeling down. They cuffed me and placed me in the patrol car. Tom, shaking and pale, got out of his car, and my eyes met Sarah's tear-streaked face as she spoke to the police. I managed a bitter smile before they took

me away. At the station, they booked me, and I made my one call to Luke. Being the weekend, I spent two nights in jail before my court appearance on Monday. I pleaded not guilty, and the judge set my bail, which Luke paid late that afternoon. "Anthony, they're talking about attempted homicide or at least assault with a deadly weapon," he said. "I know," I muttered. "First things first, though; take me to the bank. Sarah's probably drained the accounts, but I need to check." Sure enough, the cash was gone, though the CDs and bonds remained untouched, a

court order blocking me from accessing them. I called Sarah, who actually answered. "You could have left me five bucks at least; you really are cheap," I said. "I needed that money for the kids and me," she replied coldly. "Doesn't Tom make enough? I've got mortgage payments to think about too. Maybe I should just warm the house up with a little fire," I replied sarcastically. "Anthony, stop with the crazy talk. I'm sorry it turned out like this, but you're not helping yourself," she said, as though that would make it easier. "I'll accept it when you send

my kids back home," I retorted. "I can't, especially given your recent behavior. After all this is over, I'll let you see them, but you won't be seeing me and Tom." She ended the call with, "From now on, talk to my attorney." "Sarah, you have no idea how sorry you're going to be," I muttered to the dial tone. At my next court date, my attorney argued for temporary insanity, saying I'd acted impulsively after Sarah's shocking revelation. Sarah and Tom painted themselves as victims, both requesting a restraining order. The judge questioned me about my words to Tom,

and I admitted that I'd warned him, though maybe not in those exact words. "How would you feel if a friend betrayed you like that?" I tried to explain, but my lawyer shot me a look that said it all. "Anthony, don't say a word," he whispered. "We're trying to prove you didn't know what you were doing. Keep quiet." He was right. Mike, my boss, acted as my main character witness, describing me as a reliable employee who never lost his temper. After his testimony, the case closed, and we awaited the judge's decision. Back at work, Mike joked,

offering to hire someone to make Tom and Sarah disappear. I declined, though the thought lingered. In the end, I was still caught in the system. Six months and $12,000 later, my divorce was finalized. Sarah got half of everything, including proceeds from the house sale. She claimed her jewelry was missing, accusing me of taking it. I countered that my things were gone too, suggesting she'd taken it all. "Are they serious? I'm the one in jail!" I yelled at my attorney after hearing the judge's sentence. "Anthony, it could have been worse. You could have been looking at

manslaughter charges," he replied calmly. "With good behavior, you'll be out in less than eight months and your record can be cleared in two years. Just do the time, get out, and move on." Easy for him to say, but the thought of 24 hours a day in jail wasn't exactly something I was looking forward to. I appealed but got nowhere. My life had crumbled within a year, all thanks to Sarah and Tom. "Your job will be here when you get out," Mike advised before I turned myself in. "Don't do anything dumb and keep your head down."

After one last visit with my kids, I reported to the county facility. Luke kept my inmate account topped up, though most of the stuff in there was junk. Without a phone or computer, I scribbled my thoughts on paper and made biweekly collect calls to Luke, my mom, and the kids to stay updated. During one visit, Luke said, "I've got someone repairing your car with the insurance payout, and I'm taking care of your lawn. I also installed new deadbolts on the house. Sarah picked up the rest of her and the kids' clothes, but the furniture stayed

after I made sure she had a court order to remove anything else." I was grateful Luke was looking out for me. Sarah had let my parents see the kids every other Sunday, but not without some snide remarks about their jailbird father. She planned to set strict rules for when I got out, but my parents put up with her to keep communication open. After seven days, I confirmed my visitation rights: every other weekend, a full month in the summer, and shared holidays. I informed my boss that I'd need a week to settle back in after my

release. That day came sooner than expected, and I was thrilled to trade the orange jumpsuit for street clothes. Luke was waiting outside, and we headed straight to the nearest bar. "To freedom!" I said, clinking bottles with him before downing the first of three beers. "Beth's got a steak dinner with all the trimmings ready for us," he said. "You're staying with us for a few nights until you sort things at the house." "Still up for sale, but no offers yet. Sarah wants to lower the price, but she needs your approval first." I smiled, feeling a bit

more in control. All the furniture's still there, but I did get rid of the master bedroom set, like you asked. He added, "Dinner was fantastic! I ate more in that one meal than I had in months, savoring the freedom to indulge. I drank too much, vaguely recalling five or six beers and three glasses of wine. When I finally woke up, it was after 10:00 a.m. the next day. By 11:00, I managed to hit the bathroom and get myself presentable. In the kitchen, I found a note from Luke: 'If you're reading this, you survived last night.

There's coffee ready, and everything else is in the fridge. The spare bathroom has soap, a razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. If you need anything else, we'll get it tonight. The keys to your car and house are on the key rack by the back door. Don't do anything stupid. See you around 5:30.' Luke knew. Well, two cups of coffee and an English muffin were all I could manage. After a shower and shave, I almost felt human again. Luke had laid out a fresh set of clothes, and within an hour, I was headed to my

house. Sitting in my repaired car outside, I paused for a good 10 minutes, letting memories wash over me. Taking a breath, I noticed the new deadbolt. With a turn of the key, I stepped inside. The place was a wreck: clothes were strewn everywhere, the kitchen was a mess, and the fridge still held old food. In the corner by the sink, I saw the dented wall from that night when my fist met a stud. Rubbing my knuckles, I recalled that moment. Upstairs, the kids' closets were bare, save for a few forgotten trinkets. My bedroom felt hollow,

with only my dresser and a pile of clothes left. The dark patches on the carpet showed where her bed and dresser had been, a reminder that the room needed a complete overhaul before I'd feel comfortable using it again. The whole house needed work before it could be sold, but I wasn't rushing to sell. I made a list of repairs, deciding I wanted it done right, though not necessarily by me. At the bank, I confirmed she'd emptied the lock box. They had video evidence, and my attorney filed a motion to retrieve the contents. The court ordered

Sarah to return everything she'd taken. She's offering to trade her share of the house for your share of the CDs and bonds, my attorney explained. I told her to return everything, or she'd face arrest for non-compliance. She can be as upset as she wants; my job is to protect your interests. That's why I'm here, he added. Back at the house, I took inventory of what I had left and called a local contractor to repair the walls. I also reached out to Mary Mains to clean up the kitchen and dining room, where I'd thrown the microwave

and dishes. With the utility still on, I could move back in once I got a new bed. After a bit of shopping, I found a decent queen-size set for $900. At least I wouldn't be sleeping on a mattress my ex had shared with someone else. Hank, the contractor, arrived Saturday morning for an estimate. "Your walls are solid," he chuckled, glancing at the dent. "Must have hurt when you punched that stud. Just fix the holes and put on a fresh coat of paint." I replied, "Nothing fancy. How about $200?" "That's my price. Take it or leave

it. You did the neighborhood a favor with that thing with Tom's car," he added with a grin. "Most of the guys around here look up to you now." I thanked him, and he got to work. Within six weeks, my CDs and bonds were back in the bank, the house was repaired and cleaned, and things felt almost normal. When the kids stayed with me for their first weekend, it was awkward. I broke the ice, saying, "I know this feels strange, but this is still your home. Say whatever you need to. I've got thick skin now, and

not much could shock me." "Dad, we love you. We're sorry about what Mom did," Jack said, with Nora nodding. "We didn't know about Tom until she said we'd be moving to his house. We weren't happy and still aren't." "Look," I told them, "there wasn't much I could do. Even without Tom, your mom and I wouldn't be getting back together. What we had is over. I'm still your dad, and I'll always love you. I'll be here for you." We hugged, ordered pizza, and watched a movie. I wanted to vent about their mother, but I held back.

That first weekend felt like a win; we ended up feeling like a family again, just different. I took Jack to get a proper haircut, and little by little, life moved on. I went back to work, kept a modest social life, and focused on the kids. Jack took up soccer, and Nora was all about dance classes, which kept me busy. Everyone except my brother kept telling me to let go and start fresh. "You're still young; you can find someone new, get married, and build a new life," they'd say. I'd just shake my head. "Forget it. I

wasted 14 years on her, and if I want to stay mad, that's my choice," I'd respond. None of them had gone through what I had these past two years. Sometimes, you need that pound of flesh to make the pain go away. In one way or another, that's what I was going to get. Sarah wanted to lower the price of the house, but I wasn't budging. "Anthony, it won't sell." In this market, unless we drop it by at least $20,000," she argued. "If you're willing to give up $20,000 of your share, then fine; otherwise the price

stays." I countered. We eventually divided the bonds and CDs. She spent hers on a new car and a vacation with Tom, while I banked mine to build a nest egg. Eight and a half months after getting out, I heard about Tom's house fire while he and Sarah were at Jack's soccer game. Someone had drenched the electrical box in the back of the house in gasoline. The entire rear section was ruined, and they lost power. The next day, two officers showed up at my door, bringing me in for questioning. I kept my answers simple; I was

at a neighborhood party with at least ten people who saw me there. "I said, 'Anthony, you were only a block away. You could have done this,'" one officer accused. "Prove it," I replied calmly. Finally, I stood up and told them, "Charge me, let me go, or I'm calling my lawyer." They released me but warned they'd be watching. Mentally, I checked off my list: one down, two to go. Since Sarah and Tom's house was unlivable, I offered to take the kids while repairs were underway, which could take a couple of months. Sarah wasn't pleased but didn't

argue. "Anthony, I know you did it, regardless of what the police say," she accused one night as she picked up the kids. "I don't know what you're talking about," I replied. "I was with our friends." "Too bad you and Tom aren't invited anymore. Maybe I could put in a good word for you." "Don't bother; we wouldn't go even if they begged us," she shot back, looking bitter. "Well, you have each other, and that's all that matters for now," I said, giving her a smile. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Nothing, just that you're

both lucky to have one another," I replied, this time smiling inside and out. The kids seemed to want to spend more time with me, which didn't sit well with Sarah or Tom. I'd heard from the kids that they'd had some heated arguments, with Tom telling them he wasn't their father. Sarah blamed me, accusing me of stirring up trouble. "I said her straight, Sarah, I don't badmouth you. You're their mother, and I've told them to listen to you. As for Tom, he's a backstabber, lucky to still be walking around, but aside from that, he's an okay

guy." She shot me a glare that could kill. "He's good to your kids, so quit putting him down," she insisted. "Not going to happen. He means nothing to me, and I'd gladly dance on his grave one day," I replied with an icy smile. She looked furious. "Anthony, so help me, what are you going to do? Sarah? Cheat on me, divorce me, put me in jail, and make my life hell? Oh wait, you already did all that. You can't hurt me anymore. Now go back to your husband and leave me alone." Without another word, she walked

away. It was hard to believe I'd once loved her. Work was going well; within weeks, I was back to full speed, and Mike had me take over four more accounts. With the kids and no one else at home, I had the time. After connecting with my new clients, I planned two-day trips to each site to get familiar with their operations. Three accounts were smooth, but K&G Enterprises was a challenge. They were overhauling their manufacturing process, so I needed monthly visits to keep up. The assigned engineer was knowledgeable but arrogant and uncooperative, which made it tough

to get the data we needed. "Mike, if they don't get me what I need, their whole system's going to get screwed up," I warned. Mike brought in an intermediary who worked directly with me from then on. Her name was Amber Stevenson. "Glad to meet you," her name's Anthony McCoy," she introduced herself, shaking my hand with a firm grip. Amber had a degree in process engineering and had been with K&G Enterprises for five years. We worked well together, and she always got me what I needed. Two weeks before we wrapped up the first phase, I suggested

dinner. "Amber, I'd like to take you and your husband out as a thank you. The Weston, where I'm staying, has a great restaurant; how about 6:00?" She agreed, and we shook on it. I left the plant by 4:30, caught up on emails, and got to the restaurant early. When Amber arrived alone, I was surprised. "Where's your husband?" I asked. "I'm not married," she laughed. "Why do you ask?" "Oh, sorry. I just assumed," I replied, glancing at the rings on her finger. She smiled. "I wear these to keep things professional. People don't hit on a married

woman, and I avoid any uncomfortable issues. Plus, married people get promoted faster; their scene is more stable." "How do you explain it at company events?" I asked. "I just say he's out of town," she said with a shrug. "They don't ask anymore." We laughed, and by the end of dinner, I told her a bit about the past two years. "That's rough," she said, shaking her head. "What you went through was brutal." "Tell me about it, but I'm moving on." Revenge was still on my mind, but I wanted to rebuild my life too. "You're young, Anthony,

and there are plenty of women who'd be happy to be with a guy like you," she said, giving me a smile. "Maybe, but I haven't had much ambition to date. It's still hard to trust anyone." "Well, you did ask me out," she said, teasing me. "You and your husband," I corrected her. "If I wasn't married, would you still have asked?" she asked, eyes twinkling. "Probably," I said honestly. "You're easy." To talk to, not like my ex. Thanks, I think she laughed. Dinner went great, and I left town the next day, not expecting to be back

for a month. I asked Amber to call me if anything came up, and we kept in touch by phone and email. Soon enough, we were seeing each other most nights when I was in town, which was every couple of weeks. Trust was still an issue, but I was trying to get past it. After a couple of months, our relationship moved to the next level. I was finally ready to let someone in again. Maybe I'm starting to feel normal, I thought one night. Amber said she had a conflict on Wednesday, and I didn't think much of

it. I was in town, so I looked up a new restaurant to try out. After several visits, I’d been to most local places and found a nice Korean restaurant about 25 minutes away. I ordered a beer and a sampler platter, ready to relax. Then I heard her laugh. There was Amber, sitting with another man. They were holding hands, and it was clear this was no casual dinner. My appetite vanished. I finished my beer, paid, and left. On Thursday, I dodged her and ate lunch alone. By 3:00 p.m., Amber was back, following me around and acting

flirty. "So, you took care of your conflict last night?" I asked. "Yep, and tonight I'm all yours," she said, smiling. I looked her in the eye. "I found a cozy little Korean place with a sampler platter. Sound familiar?" Her face went pale. "Anthony, I can explain." "No need. I already got rid of one lying woman; I don't need another." I walked away and cut my trip short. After ignoring her emails for a week, she stopped trying. Fortunately, Mike reassigned me to a new contact—a guy this time. My trust issues were back in full force, and

Amber only made it worse. Then, three months later, I got an unexpected early Christmas present: Tom was hit by a car while crossing the street. Witnesses only saw a black four-door car with tinted windows; coincidentally, it matched my black Toyota. Saturday night, two officers came to my house. My neighbor Brad watched as they walked up. "Mr. McFay, we'd like a word," one of the officers said. "Sure, no problem," I replied, glancing at Brad. "I'll catch up with you later," I told him, then turned back to the officers. "Mr. McFay, do you own a black Toyota

Camry?" the other officer asked. "Yes, why?" I replied, joking, "What, did I get a parking ticket?" They didn't laugh. "Is the car here?" the first officer asked. "Yeah, it's in the garage. What's this about?" I asked. They asked to see it, so I opened the garage. One officer took out a camera and started photographing the front right bumper. "Can you explain these scratches and marks?" he asked. "No idea, it's an 8-year-old car; some nicks and scratches are normal." When they didn't respond, I added, "So what's this about? Why are you interested in my car?" "Mr.

McFay, there was a hit-and-run yesterday, and witnesses described a black sedan with dark windows like yours." "Like mine and about a million other cars in town," I replied, feeling irritated. "Did the license plate match, or did anyone actually see me driving?" The officer paused. "The witnesses only saw the car." "Well, as you can see, there's no real damage to the front," I said, gesturing at my car. "I can account for my whereabouts from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. yesterday. Why are you picking on me?" "Your history with the victim and past threats led us here,"

one officer replied. "Thanks for your cooperation." They started walking back to their patrol car. "Wait!" I called after them. "Who is hit?" "Mr. Kelly," the officer replied, not turning back. "Is he dead?" I asked, unable to hide my smile. "No, but he's in critical condition," the officer said, looking over his shoulder as they drove off. I went inside, opened a bottle of wine, and ordered a pizza. I ate most of the pizza and downed the entire bottle of wine in what felt like a well-deserved celebration. The neighborhood buzzed with gossip about Tom. Some felt sorry

for him, while others said he got what he deserved. Personally, I was in seventh heaven. Two days later, things took a turn, and Tom died. I showed up at his funeral sharp as a tack—in a new suit, with a fresh haircut and polished shoes. I even had my car washed and waxed for the occasion. The funeral home wasn't packed, but a lot of people lingered outside. As I entered, conversations hushed. I didn't bother signing the guest book, just walked straight down the aisle. Sarah looked horrified, but my kids gave me small smiles. She tried to

stop me from reaching the casket, but I'd been preparing for this moment. When I got there, I leaned over and spat in Tom's face, enough to dribble onto his shirt. Sarah screamed, calling me every name she could think of. I didn't hide my smirk. "Two down, one to go," I whispered to her. She froze, terror mingling with her tears. "I warned you," I said softly, and walked out of the silent funeral home. Over the next month, the police questioned me twice more at Sarah's insistence. She insisted that just because it wasn't my car didn't mean

I wasn't involved. The driver was never caught, and after a few months, it was old news. When the patrol car pulled up to my driveway, I was expecting it. I locked up my house and watched as they approached. "Mr. McFay, do you know Richard Collins?" a detective asked, showing me a picture. "Sure do," I replied, pushing the photo back. "I hired him to keep..." "An eye on my ex-wife? He's been on and off the job for about a month. Why did you hire Mr. Collins to watch your ex-wife?" the detective asked, his tone dripping with

sarcasm. "Since she took up with her now late husband, bad luck seems to follow her." "My kids live with her, so I hired Collins to keep them safe, especially at night." "Well, your ex-wife reported being followed," the detective replied, not hiding his irritation. "She noticed Mr. Collins several times and called us. When we picked him up, he told us you hired him, Mr. McVey. This borders on harassment, and if it continues, you could be facing charges." "I'm just looking out for my kids. I don't care what happens to her, but my kids are different. If

that's a problem, I'll count on your department to keep them safe." "It's not illegal," the detective said, though he looked annoyed. "But it's close. Why not talk to your ex-wife and work something out?" "Last time I tried that, I ended up in jail," I replied. "They let me go but warned they'd be watching. I didn't mind; I hadn't hired Collins to be discreet. I wanted Sarah to know she was being watched. The next guy I hired was even less subtle—a biker straight out of a Hell's Angels movie. He cost $30 an hour and worked three

hours every fourth night. I knew he'd get the message across. If she cracked, I'd have a chance to get the kids full-time and finally have my family back." "What do you want, Anthony?" Sarah screamed into the phone one night, her voice shaking. "I want you to choke on your own spit and die, Sarah," I replied calmly. She hung up, stunned. I was on my porch when the police arrived. "You're late," I said, waving them in. Sarah was charging me with threatening her life, but I'd already briefed my lawyer, who was waiting at the station. "My

client expressed a wish, not a threat," he told the officers. They tried arguing that she felt threatened because she was being followed, but my lawyer held his ground. "It's not illegal to have someone watch," he pointed out, "and unless you have a recording of Mr. McVey making a threat, you have no case." "Mr. McVey, why don't you move on? She left you; it happens," the officer said, irritation clear in his voice. "If she snaps and hurts someone, we'll hold you responsible," another officer warned. I turned to my lawyer. "Is there a way to end this?"

"My client wants his kids back," my lawyer stated. "If Mrs. Kelly gives up custody, he'll back off," the officer replied. "That's for the court to decide," my lawyer added before finally releasing me. That Sunday morning, while reading the paper over coffee, the doorbell rang. It was Sarah's parents, dressed for church. "Can I get you some coffee?" I asked, but they declined. "Anthony, we know what our daughter did wasn't right, especially with you going to jail," her father started, "but she's our only child, and we don't want anything to happen to her." "I'm not looking to

hurt her," I replied, keeping my tone even. "She made her choices, and now she's paying for them. I just want my kids. They're better off with me, especially since her life seems to be falling apart. I'd hate for anything to happen to them. If something happened to her—" They looked at each other, unsure. "We'll talk to her, but you know how stubborn she can be," her mother replied, trying to soften the tension. "That's where you're wrong. The woman I married would never have cheated or thrown me under the bus. I don't know who she is

now, other than my kids' mother. I want her to suffer a miserable end. I don't forgive, and I don't forget," I replied. They left quickly, and I was sure they got the message. Thursday evening around 7:00 p.m., she finally showed up. She must have walked over since I hadn't heard a car. I looked through the peephole and opened the door. "Come in, Sarah. Want a drink? Hemlock on the rocks?" I joked, shutting the door. "Very funny. You really are a jerk, you know that?" she shot back. I opened the door, gesturing outside. "I think we're

done here. Nice of you to stop by. I hope you have a short, miserable life," I said. "I'm not leaving until we talk," she insisted, settling into the living room. "Suit yourself," I replied, pouring a glass of wine. "So, what brings you by?" "I still own half of this house," she said. "Minus what I've paid since the divorce," I reminded her. "I want it sold. What will it take to drop the price?" she asked, exasperated. "An act of God, or you could cover the loss with interest," I replied coolly. "I just want you out of

this neighborhood and out of my life." "That's never going to happen," I said firmly. "Do you hate me that much?" she asked, her tone softer. "More than you could ever imagine," I replied. "It wasn't meant to go down this way," she started, clearly uncomfortable. "I never planned to get involved with Tom. It just happened." "Things don't just happen, Sarah. You went into it willingly," I shot back. "He needed me," she said defensively. "I fell in love with him because we needed each other." "What were you doing? Charity work?" I asked, my voice sharp. "I needed

you. Our kids needed you. Our marriage needed you. You chose him over us. Now he's dead, and suddenly he's not so needy anymore," I said, smiling at the memory. "I only wish I'd been the one driving the car." "You've become so hateful, Anthony. Taking pleasure in someone's misfortune is twisted," she said, disgusted. "I may be twisted, but you and Tom pushed me there." "Of marriages fail, but not all spouses end up hating each other," I pointed out. "Don't you care about anyone else's marriage?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. "Not one bit," I replied. "And by

the way, how long have I been a fool?" She hesitated, then finally answered, "Five months." "I nearly told you after the first time. I was devastated." "But you didn't, and it kept happening. How many times did you sleep with him in our bed?" "Never," she said angrily. "I wouldn't do that." "So it was fine anywhere else," I retorted. "Our friend saw it and didn't tell me. I can't trust anyone now! Where do we go from here?" "This house is our last connection," she said. "What about the kids? I'm not giving them up," she replied. "To

hell with you! You drove me to lose custody. If I hadn't gone after Tom's car, things might have been different. Now it's just you and me." Her eyes widened in shock. "Are you threatening me? Me deprive my kids of their mother?" I mocked. "Never! But if something should happen, well, I'd make sure they always remember you." She stood up, visibly shaken. "I'm out of here. We had twelve good years, and I'm sorry it ended like this." She moved to kiss my cheek, but I pushed her away. "Don't touch me! You disgust me," I said coldly.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "Don't be." "I'm not," I replied, watching her walk away. As she reached the driveway, I called out, "You know Tom had the same look right before he died. Too bad I didn't snap a picture." She ran back to her house. In truth, I'd been the one to start the fire at Tom's house. Two Gatorade bottles of gasoline and a cigarette were all it took. I'd made sure everyone was out before slipping away. As for his death, that was just dumb luck on his part. Still, Sarah and her family would always suspect

I was involved, and that was fine with me. Now Sarah was likely at home, locking her doors, thinking she was next. But I wasn't planning to touch her. I'd just keep planting hints and letting her paranoia grow. Maybe someday the kids would choose to live with me. The only truly good thing to come out of all this mess was meeting someone new. Her name is Amanda, and she works for the State Department of Corrections. She was responsible for checking in on me after I was released, making sure I was adjusting. Amanda's tough and takes no

nonsense, which I respect. When the formalities were over, we started talking and found we actually had a lot in common. Once my probation was up, we went out on an actual date. I told her I had trust issues, and she admitted that most people lie to her one way or another. We're both working on our trust issues together and getting to know each other. Amanda has shown me how my bitterness was holding me back from real life and meaningful relationships. "If you mess up and land yourself back in jail, I'll make sure it's my cell

block where you end up," she told me with a smile that sent a chill down my spine. And you know what? I believe her. She's someone I'd never cross, and it's comforting knowing she'd never cross me either. For the first time in years, I think I'm ready to move on and open myself up to something real.