Chapter 5
Saturday. I don't work Saturdays. Neither does Marco.
We used to spend them together — farmers market in the morning, errands, maybe a movie.
Since February, Saturdays have looked different.
He's been "helping Brooke" or "running to the hardware store" or "meeting a client about an estimate.
" I let it go because I was tired. I'm always tired.
Night shift makes you too exhausted to be suspicious.
I eat the eggs because I'm hungry. Not because I'm forgiving him.
"I was thinking," he says, sitting across from me. "I could pick up extra jobs. Weekends. I know a guy who does bathroom remodels and he's looking for help. I could earn back—"
"How long would it take to earn back twenty-three thousand dollars doing weekend bathroom remodels?"
He pauses. Does the math. I watch him do it — slower than me, always slower. "Maybe... a year? If I worked every weekend?"
"And the credit line interest? That's accruing at 12.9%. That's $247 a month in interest alone, on top of minimum payments."
He didn't know the interest rate. I can see it on his face. He opened a $23,000 line of credit and didn't look at the terms.
"I didn't—"
"Look at the rate? No. You didn't."
He puts his fork down. "I'm trying, Nina."
"I know." I drink my orange juice. Count the pulp strands caught on the glass. Seven. "I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest."
"Anything."
"Was it really once?"
He meets my eyes. "Yes. I swear."
"Then why did the money keep going AFTER April? If you had sex once and felt guilty — why did you send her eight thousand dollars in June?"
The question hangs. He shifts in his chair. The wood creaks — I count the creak as one second of silence.
"Because she needed—"
"Don't say she needed it. She's a NURSE, Marco. She has the same degree I do. She could work anywhere."
"She said she couldn't handle going back. Not yet. Said she was dealing with—"
"Depression? Anxiety? I work twelve-hour shifts three days after crying in a break room. Nurses don't get to not handle it. We go to work."
He looks at his hands. His thumb rubs the base of his ring finger — a tell. I've seen it during arguments for six years. It means he's about to say something he knows I won't like.
"She made me feel needed," he says. Quiet. "Not just useful. Not just handy. Like — she NEEDED me. You're so capable, Nina. You never need me for anything. You fix everything yourself. You handle everything. With Brooke I felt like—"
"A hero."
"Don't say it like that."
"You felt like a hero. She made you feel like the man who saves her. And that was worth twenty-three thousand dollars."
He's crying now. Silent tears, which are worse than the loud kind because they mean something has actually broken open rather than just overflowing.
"I didn't plan it," he says. "I just didn't stop it."
I file that sentence. It belongs in the folder on my laptop — the personal one, not the legal one. The folder where I keep the things that explain who my husband actually is versus who I thought he was.
"I'm going out," I say. I rinse my plate. Put it in the dishwasher.
"Where?"
"Errands." I'm not going to tell him I'm going to Brooke's apartment.
I drive to Miller Street. Park in the same spot as Thursday. It's 11:30 AM. Her light is on. I'm not going up yet — I just want to see who comes and goes.
For ninety minutes I sit in my car with a coffee and watch.
At 12:15 a delivery driver brings a package — Amazon box, medium.
At 12:40 Brooke herself comes out. She's wearing leggings, a fitted jacket, new sneakers.
Hair done. Sunglasses. She walks to her car — a Honda Civic, five years old but clean and maintained. She drives away.
I don't follow. I'm not ready for a confrontation yet. I'm still in assessment mode.
But I notice: the car looks recently serviced. Tires are good. Paint is waxed. For a woman with no income since February, everything about her life looks funded. Maintained. Comfortable.
I think about what comfort costs.
Rent: $1,400/month × 4 months = $5,600.
Utilities, insurance, groceries, gas, the washing machine, the dryer, the couch, the mug, the Amazon packages — call it another $8,000 over four months.
That's $13,600 in basic living expenses.
He sent $23,000. What's the extra $9,400?
Disposable income. He didn't just cover her needs. He funded her lifestyle. The hair appointments. The brunch with friends. The wine nights. She's living off my husband's money — not surviving, LIVING.
And she told him she was desperate. Every time.
I drive home. Marco is gone — his truck isn't there. A text from him: Went to Home Depot for the Fairfield job. Back by 3.
I go inside. Sit at my laptop. Open the DIVORCE folder. Add a new document: TIMELINE OF DECEPTION.
At the top I write: He didn't steal our money. He gave it away. To a woman who made him feel like a hero for exactly as long as the payments lasted.
Then I write down every lie. The ones he told me and the ones she told him. Because there are two sets of lies operating here — his lies of omission to me, and her lies of need to him.
He lied to me by hiding the transfers.
She lied to him by pretending she couldn't work.
They both lied to me by pretending to be what they weren't — him a faithful husband, her a struggling friend.
I need to talk to someone who isn't Marco. Someone who'll be furious on my behalf without making it about themselves.
I pick up the phone. I call my sister Rosie.
"Hey," she answers. "What's up?"
"Can you come over?"
"Now? Everything okay?"
"No. But I need to say it out loud to someone."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Eighteen minutes. She always says twenty and arrives in eighteen. I count on this. I count on everything.
I make coffee. Two mugs. I wait.
When she walks in, she sees my face and doesn't say anything. She just sits at the table — Marco's chair — and waits.
"Marco gave Brooke twenty-three thousand dollars," I say. "Over four months. Without telling me. He also slept with her. Once, he says. And he co-signed her lease. Our house fund is gone."
Rosie's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"I'm going to kill him."
"You're not. I need you to listen."
She listens. I tell her everything — the transfers, the legal pad, Heather the lawyer, the credit line, the co-signed lease, the Venmo screenshots, the man at Brooke's apartment Thursday. All of it. The clinical report. Like giving patient report at shift change — organized, thorough, unemotional.
When I finish, Rosie's hands are shaking. Mine aren't. I've already processed. I process at 3 AM while hanging IV bags. By the time I speak it aloud, the data is organized.
"What are you going to do?" she asks.
"I'm going to talk to Brooke. Then I'm going to file for divorce."
"In that order?"
"Yes. I want to see her face when I tell her I know the numbers. I want to give her one chance to pay it back before I let the lawyers handle it."
Rosie nods. Then: "Do you want me there?"
"No. I want to do it alone. But I want you to know that I went, in case—"
"In case what?"
I think about it. In case she lies and says I threatened her. In case the story gets twisted. In case I need a witness to say: Nina was calm. Nina was measured. Nina didn't lose her mind.
"In case I need someone who knows the truth."
Rosie reaches across the table and takes my hand. Squeezes once. Firm. Like the way I hold a patient's hand before a painful procedure — here, I'm here, it's going to hurt but I'm here.
"You'll get through this," she says.
I know I will. I'm good at triage. Assess, prioritize, treat. The marriage is critical condition with no viable intervention. The money is the bleed that needs pressure. And Brooke is the source that needs to be identified and removed.
Tomorrow. I'll go to her apartment tomorrow.
I just need one good sleep first. Twelve hours. Deep. Then I'll be sharp enough.