His office smelled like burnt coffee and old paper. The same dented filing cabinets lined the walls, the same framed photo of him in his Army CID uniform sat crooked on the shelf. He closed the door, sat across from me, and listened without interrupting as I told him everything.
The hernia. Nicole’s insistence. Mercer. The envelope. The look on her face.
When I finished, Brandon leaned back and exhaled slowly.
“That wasn’t nothing,” he said. “And that wasn’t innocent.”
“What was in the envelope?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”
He slid a yellow legal pad between us.
“If we do this, we do it clean. You don’t confront her. You don’t tip her off. You act normal. You let me dig.”
I nodded. “Do whatever you need to do.”
“Then you need to be ready,” Brandon said quietly. “Because if your gut is right, this isn’t just cheating.”
I went home that night and played my role.
I laughed when Nicole laughed. I thanked her for dinner. I asked about her day. I held her hand on the couch while she scrolled on her phone, face down, like always.
Inside, I was unraveling.
Two days later, Brandon called.
“Come in,” he said. “Now.”
