Chapter 3: Caught, But Never Certain

Past the living room. Past the dining room. In the kitchen—a man with a wrench.

He stood there, caught mid-motion, wrench raised like a shield. He was about my age, maybe a little younger, with dark hair and a nervous look. The kitchen light flickered overhead, casting harsh lines across his face.

I caught him. Landed a punch.

The sound of my fist connecting was sickeningly loud. He crumpled. My knuckles throbbed.

He tried to scramble away.

Rage boiled up. I lunged.

I lost count of the punches, my vision going red. Every swing was months of doubt.

“Who the hell are you? Coming into my house to sleep with my wife? You’ve got a death wish!”

My voice cracked, raw with anger and fear. I barely recognized it as my own.

He tried to defend himself, swinging wildly, but he was no match. His words barely registered.

She grabbed my arm, desperate.

I was too furious to listen to anything. All I could see was red.

I swung my arm, and my wife cried out and fell to the floor. She landed hard.

The commotion was so loud that the neighbors called the police. Sirens wailed in the distance.

She sat on the couch, face streaked with tears. When we gave our statements, my wife was crying her eyes out.

“Officer, please, you have to believe me! This is Ray from next door. Our pipes broke and I asked him to fix them. But my husband…he accused me of cheating and beat him up.”

She looked so small, so vulnerable. The officer scribbled notes, face unreadable.

I was so angry I was grinding my teeth. You’ve got to be kidding me! “Who fixes pipes in the middle of the night? I bust my ass working out there, and you won’t even let me touch you, but you’ve got some guy in here you’re cheating on me with? Do you think I’m stupid? You say he’s our neighbor—how come I’ve never seen him? He moved in two weeks ago, right? I bet you two have been together since then.”

My voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, judging, waiting for me to slip up. The room felt too small, the air thick with accusation.

She looked at me, hurt and disbelieving. “What are you talking about? How can you say that about your own wife?”

The officers exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable.

“What do you want me to say? There’s a man in our house in the middle of the night, and you blocked the door so I couldn’t come in. What do you expect me to think? And now you’re threatening me with divorce.”

My voice cracked. The anger was gone. Only desperation left.

“You…” My wife, tears in her eyes, tried to look innocent. “I didn’t want you to misunderstand, that’s why I didn’t want you to see. Besides, you saw him, right? There’s a saying: ‘You gotta catch a cheater in the act.’ You only saw him fixing the pipes in the kitchen. Did you see us in bed? If you’re going to accuse me like this, I can’t take it.”

She pouted, voice quivering. She always had a way of twisting things, making me doubt myself. I could see the officer’s eyebrow twitch, like he’d heard this kind of story a hundred times.

Lillian has always had a silver tongue—she can talk circles around anyone, turn a lie into the truth and back again.

She could talk her way out of a speeding ticket or into a five-star reservation, and she knew it. Right now, she was using every ounce of that charm to paint herself as the victim.

Now she was insisting she was innocent, and I hadn’t actually caught them in bed.

She clung to that technicality like a lifeline, daring me to prove otherwise.

I knew deep down that arguing any further was pointless. My shoulders slumped.

Plus, the police checked and confirmed that the man really did live next door, had moved in just over two weeks ago, and used to be an electrician. Since moving in, he’d fixed little things for other neighbors, too.

Mrs. Patterson from down the hall vouched for Ray, said he’d helped her with her broken garbage disposal last week. The evidence piled up, making me look more and more like the villain in my own story.

It was like punching a pillow. I hadn’t caught them red-handed.

The injustice of it all burned. My fists ached. My pride even more.

Thinking about it made me want to scream.

I wanted to punch a wall, to smash something just to feel in control again. But all I could do was stand there, jaw clenched.

He sat on the armchair, ice pack to his cheek. That Ray guy wouldn’t let it go, either—he was determined to sue me for assault and squeeze a few grand out of me.

I was practically seeing red.

The officer gave me a nudge. “Alright, you’ve got no proof of an affair. Your wife says she invited Ray to help, and he didn’t break in.”

He kept his tone calm, almost gentle, like he was talking to a cornered animal. I could hear the warning in his voice—one wrong move, and things could get worse.

“Settle privately? I want to kill him right now!” My voice echoed, raw.

The officer pulled me aside. “Mr. Carter, anger won’t help you. If you lose your temper here, you could end up with a criminal record. Your kid’s only six, your parents rely on your income. If something happens to you, what’ll they do?”

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I saw flashes of my son’s face.

My eyes stung. I was breathing hard, but slowly started to calm down.

The officer continued, “We’ll try to mediate so he’ll drop the charges, but you’ll have to pay some medical expenses since you did hit him.”

He looked at me like he wanted to help, but there was only so much he could do.

I understood the officer was trying to help.

I stared at the floor, the tile blurring as I tried to swallow my pride.

No matter what, I wasn’t going to come out ahead.

He gave me a look that said, "Let it go, for your own sake."

I forced myself to swallow my anger and paid up.

The check felt like a final insult.