Then there was the tool box.
It sat on the hall shelf so long it became invisible, like a lot of dangerous things in marriages. Blue steel, one dent near the latch, stickers from brands Diego claimed he used more than he ever did. The day after that message, you opened it while he showered.
The top tray held exactly what he expected you to see. Socket set. Measuring tape. Utility knife. Receipts crumpled into the corners. But the weight was wrong. You lifted the tray and knocked your knuckles against the steel bottom, and the sound came back hollow.
There was a false panel.
Under it, wrapped in contractor invoices and two stained microfiber cloths, sat forty-three thousand dollars in cash, a notarized transfer deed for the apartment’s second equity loan, a stamp bearing your electronic signature authorization, and a flash drive labeled Q3. That was the first time your body went truly cold, not because you finally saw evidence of cheating, but because you saw structure. Diego had not merely betrayed you romantically. He had turned your marriage into a holding company for his appetites.
