I saw the same features—but a different woman. “I’m done being the naive one,” I said softly. “Good,” Booker replied.
“Because from now on, you’re going to have to play the part he wrote for you on the outside while writing your own script on the inside.”
He cut the headlights as we approached the entrance to the gated community so the cameras wouldn’t pick up his plates too clearly. He parked a few houses away from mine. Before I opened the door, he reached into his coat and pulled out something small and round.
“What’s that?” I asked. “A microphone,” he said. “High‑end.
Long battery. It syncs to an app on your phone. Hide it somewhere he keeps close and forgets about.
Somewhere he talks around. The briefcase. His office.
His car. Anywhere he feels safe enough to let his guard down.”
The device looked like a shirt button. It felt like a weapon.
“From tonight on,” Booker said quietly, “we don’t guess. We record.”
I nodded. The December air sliced across my face as I slipped out of the car and hurried up the driveway.
Inside, the house smelled like lavender and lemon cleaner. The familiar scent made my skin crawl. I locked the door quietly and stood for a moment in the darkness, letting my eyes adjust.
The sofa where we watched movies. The kitchen island where we’d shared takeout. The framed wedding photos on the wall from a vineyard in North Georgia—the only time I remembered my father laughing with Draymond, wineglass in hand, like he dared to hope this man might be one of the good ones.
All of it looked like a stage set now. I went to the bathroom, washed my face with cold water until the evidence of tears faded, and stared at myself in the mirror. “You’re not a victim,” I whispered to my reflection.
“Not anymore.”
When my breathing evened out, I stepped back into the living room. I had a story to stage. I looked around, holding the wallet.
If I had actually fallen asleep on the couch, where would his wallet plausibly have turned up? Not hung on a lamp. Not in a drawer.
Somewhere in between. My eyes went to the sofa. I wedged the wallet halfway between the cushion and the armrest, enough leather showing that it would be noticeable, but not so much that it looked like it had been placed.
Then I turned on the TV, flipped to a random channel with the volume low, curled up on the couch with a magazine, and waited. Fifteen minutes. Thirty.
At some point, my body sagged for real. Adrenaline, grief, fury—all of it had been a high cliff. The fall afterward was steep.
The engine sound outside jolted me awake. Headlights washed across the curtains. The front door opened with more force than usual.
“Zire!”
I let my whole body jerk like someone shaken from a deep sleep. The magazine slid from my fingers. I blinked at the light.
“Dray?” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be on the plane?”
He stood in the doorway, tie loose, shirt wrinkled, hair slightly damp with sweat.
It was a good performance. If I hadn’t seen him at the window of the airport with my best friend tucked under his arm, I might have believed it. “I… on the way to the airport I realized I didn’t have my wallet,” he said, breathing hard.
“I panicked. I mean, you can’t get on a flight without ID. So I turned around and then there was this huge wreck on the freeway.
Tractor‑trailer jackknifed. Traffic was a nightmare. That’s why I’m so late.
I’m so sorry I scared you, baby.”
I put my hand to my chest as if calming my heart. “I was so worried,” I said, letting my voice tremble. “I tried calling, but your phone kept going to voicemail.”
He gave a strained laugh.
“Yeah, battery died,” he said. “Couldn’t pick a worse night, right?”
I nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s for the best,” I said.
“Look.”
I pointed to the sofa. “When I woke up, something was digging into my side,” I said. “I reached down and…”
His eyes followed my gesture.
The edge of the leather wallet peeked out from between the cushions. For a second, I saw pure, desperate relief on his face. He lunged forward, grabbed it, and opened it.
Cards. Cash. Everything.
What he didn’t see was the echo of those papers already stored on my phone. He turned and hugged me, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt. “My lucky charm,” he murmured into my hair.
“What would I do without you?”
I inhaled. Under his cologne, I caught a note of familiar perfume. Not mine.
Kenyatta’s. My stomach twisted. I didn’t pull away.
“Go take a hot shower,” I said softly. “You look exhausted.”
He exhaled as if he’d been carrying the world. “Yeah,” he said.
“Maybe that’s a good idea.”
He headed upstairs. I waited until I heard the shower start. Then I remembered the small weight in my hand.
The microphone. In our bedroom, his suit jacket and shirt were draped across the bed. I moved past them.
His leather briefcase sat near the dresser, upright, latches gleaming. He loved that briefcase. He’d made a point of mentioning that he’d bought it with his “own money” before our wedding.
That it made him feel like he belonged at the table with men my father had taken decades to earn respect from. The shower water thundered on the other side of the bathroom door. I knelt by the briefcase.
My heart beat loud in my ears, but my hands were steady. I opened a small inner zippered pocket meant for coins or keys and pushed the microphone into the far corner, pressing it down so it wouldn’t shift. Then I zipped it closed and set everything back exactly the way it had been.
Draymond came out of the bathroom in a towel, steam swirling around him. I turned with a soft smile and held out his pajamas. “Here,” I said.
“I thought you’d want something comfortable to sleep in after all that ‘traffic.’”
He chuckled, kissed my forehead again, and took the clothes. Within minutes, he was in bed, breathing deep, already drifting. I lay next to him in the dark, my phone lighting my face.
The spy‑mic app showed a small green dot. Device connected. Battery full.
Waiting. Just before dawn, his alarm buzzed. He groaned, showered, dressed, grabbed his briefcase, and left the house, muttering something about having to “salvage what’s left of the day at the office.”
The moment the door closed, I slipped into the kitchen and pressed the phone to my ear.
At first, I heard only ambient noise—car sounds, the faint whoosh of traffic. Then the ring of a phone. Not his regular ringtone.
A different one. “Yeah,” he said when someone picked up. His voice was stripped of charm, rawer.
“It’s me.”
“Finally,” a woman snapped. “I’ve been calling.”
Kenyatta. They didn’t waste time on greetings.
“What the hell happened last night?” she demanded. “I’m watching from the window and suddenly there’s cop cars everywhere. How did they know?”
“How should I know?” he spat.
“One minute everything is perfect, the next minute some SWAT team has our guy on the ground. Do you have any idea what this means? The deadline is tomorrow.
I still owe over two hundred grand, Ken. Those people are not playing.”
His voice dropped even lower. “If I don’t pay, they’re coming to the office,” he said.
“To the house. They’ll tear me apart. They’ll ruin everything.
Jail would be a vacation compared to what they can do.”
There was the sound of a lighter flicking. “You’re not the only one in this,” Kenyatta said, exhaling smoke into the line. “But we still have Plan B.”
“The warehouse?” he asked.
“Yes, the warehouse, genius,” she snapped. “That old Langston building on the south side. Everyone has always said your wife’s daddy hid gold and deeds and safe‑stuff out there.
The problem is the same as always—only she knows the code to the safe. You have to get it out of her. Lie, guilt her, make her feel sorry for you.
I don’t care.”
He cursed under his breath. “I’ll go home tonight,” he said. “With gifts.
Flowers. Something expensive. I’ll play the perfect husband.
She still thinks I’m a good man.”
Not anymore, I thought. I ended the call recording and dialed Booker. “We need to move,” I said.
