Chapter 5: Stalking the Truth

At 5 PM, I watched Lauren hurry out of the building, heading to the parking garage. She drove a black Cadillac Escalade, windows tinted.

I kept two cars back, channeling every bad detective movie I’d ever seen. After ten minutes of careful tailing, she pulled into Willowbrook Estates—a quiet, upscale suburb. Not Palo Alto, but close.

I was surprised. Lauren was a logistics worker, maybe $60K a year. How did she afford this? Family money? A sugar daddy? I hated the ugly thoughts.

My Cayenne—Nathan’s anniversary gift—got me past the gate with a polite nod from the guard. I parked under a big oak, staring at Lauren’s house: number 47, a cream-colored house with black shutters, a patch of green lawn, and a basketball hoop over the garage.

I sat there, feeling like a stalker, my therapist’s disapproval ringing in my head. Was it the red marks? The lipstick? Or just my own compulsive nature?

I almost left. Engine on, hands on the wheel. Then Nathan’s Cullinan rolled up behind me—license plate NBE-2018. Our wedding year.

Every muscle in my body locked up. I watched as Nathan’s car parked in front of Lauren’s house. He didn’t get out. Just waited.

With shaking hands, I called him. He answered instantly. "Em, what’s up? Miss me already?"

I forced myself to sound normal. "Nathan, are you still at work? You seemed tired. Come home early—I’ll make soup."

He chuckled softly. "I’m outside now, just left. A senior exec wants to see the Peterson proposal. I’m taking someone to meet them. You know how clients are."

"Who are you taking?" My voice was almost steady.

"Secretary Hayes. She has the files."

Through the dusk, I saw Lauren come out, portfolio in hand, and get into Nathan’s car. The interior light flicked on—I caught a glimpse of his profile.

Nathan’s call continued, calm and easy. "I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep well. Secretary Hayes just got in. I’ll be home by 7. Want Thai food?"

After hanging up, I exhaled, fogging up the windshield. He sounded so normal—no stutter, no guilt.

Just coincidence, I told myself. It had to be.

But as Nathan’s Cullinan exited, the gate lifted automatically—no code, no stop, no hesitation.

I turned to Lauren’s house—a beautiful three-story, pink curtains in the windows, herbs in neat pots on the balcony.

I sat frozen, mind spinning. Ten minutes, three deep breaths, and a sip of water later, I walked up to the door.

The digital lock glowed. My hand moved before my brain caught up, fingers keying in my birthday—960703. The lock clicked open.