Chapter 37
Susan
Monday
As soon as Jon leaves for work on Monday morning, I start to dig, with a visceral need to know who he’s seeing.
It’s like pressing a bruise, but I need to know everything about her.
Opening our joint credit card account on my phone, I scroll to the drinks from the Marker Hotel, the charge I spotted on Friday.
The next few transactions are all mine. Then another charge at the Marker Hotel, one I missed on Friday, this time from two weeks ago.
Again, about the price of two drinks. Which doesn’t tell me anything concrete and doesn’t tell me who she is, but still.
It’s nowhere near his office so it probably wasn’t work drinks, and surely he’d have mentioned if he was going there with someone else?
Apart from an occasional night out with his friends, Jon does three things: works, runs, hangs out here with Bella and me.
I’d remember if he said he was going to a bar, wouldn’t I?
This day two weeks ago. Monday. I try to work out what we did that evening, to hook on to any memory, but I can’t.
Every day is the same. Every evening’s the same.
Bella’s bedtime routine, then collapse in front of the TV.
I keep looking. But there’s nothing else.
And it’s not surprising—the Marker Hotel charges are blips, no doubt.
Jon would use his own credit card for anything he doesn’t want me to see.
His statements are all online, his access via the app on his phone.
Is there any way to get into his account?
Do I know his passcode? Did I ever? I remember he used to keep a spreadsheet with all his bank account details and codes…
would he still have that? We each have our own laptops, and he brings his in and out of work, but there’s also the shared computer, the one Jon used to use for personal admin.
I don’t know if it will even function, but it’s worth a try.
Bella’s getting heavy in my arms now so I pop her in the sling and go through to the den.
The PC sits on top of a tall stack of Ikea bookshelves.
It’s heavy to lift, especially with Bella in tow, but I manage to get it down and on to the floor, then the monitor too.
The power button is dusty but depresses easily.
Five minutes later, I’m in a folder marked “Taxes and Finances”—one of Jon’s.
There are dozens of spreadsheets here, dating back years.
I can’t remember the name of the one where he kept track of his account details, but I’ve seen it before, back when we pored over finances, applying for a mortgage.
Bella stirs and I kiss her head. The noise of an engine pulls my attention to the window.
Jon couldn’t be home, could he? But there’s no one there.
Back to the files. And there it is. Fin17.
xls. I click in. Worksheets for every bank account, diligent notes on what each one was for.
And on the final worksheet, his list of codes, including his eight-digit Bank of Ireland login and his six-digit PIN.
I sit back for a moment. If I do this, it’s crossing a line I can’t uncross.
But then Jon’s the one who crossed a line first. My phone is in my hand before I can think too much more, and I’m entering the numbers.
Will it send him a message to say a new device has logged in?
I don’t know. But he won’t know it’s me, so what’s the worst that can happen?
Ten seconds later, I’m in. And then I’m in his credit card, and it’s all laid bare.