The Man in His Phone

I'd become a spy in my own marriage. The thought made me sick, but not as sick as the gnawing uncertainty that had taken residence in my stomach these past weeks. Tonight, I sat in my car three blocks away from our apartment, engine off, waiting. The dashboard clock read 10:17 PM when Michael's silver Audi pulled out of our building's garage.

My hands trembled slightly as I turned the key in the ignition. "This is insane," I whispered to myself, but followed him anyway, keeping a careful distance. The sculpture I'd been working on at the studio sat unfinished, my creative energy now diverted to this desperate investigation.

Michael drove with purpose, taking the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway before exiting toward the waterfront. I nearly lost him twice, my heart racing each time his taillights disappeared around a corner. Finally, he pulled into a deserted parking area near an old industrial pier, the Manhattan skyline glittering across the water like a distant, indifferent audience.

I killed my headlights and parked behind a derelict warehouse, my pulse thundering in my ears. The October wind whipped off the East River as I cracked my window, carrying the scent of brine and rust. Michael sat in his car for nearly ten minutes before a second vehicle arrived—a nondescript dark sedan that parked several spaces away.

A figure emerged wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a dark jacket. In the dim light from the single functioning streetlamp, I couldn't make out a face—couldn't even tell if it was a man or woman. Michael got out to meet them, his posture rigid with tension.

I wished I'd brought binoculars. From my vantage point, I could only see silhouettes—two people standing close together, gesturing occasionally. Their conversation appeared tense, Michael's shoulders hunched defensively while the other person stood unnaturally still. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only minutes, Michael reached into his jacket and removed what looked like an envelope.

My breath caught. Money? Was this blackmail?

The figure took the envelope, checked its contents briefly, then disappeared back into the shadows without another word. Michael remained standing alone for several moments, staring out at the water before returning to his car. His face, briefly illuminated by the interior light, looked haunted.

I slumped down in my seat as he drove past, my mind racing with possibilities, each more disturbing than the last.

---

"I found something," Simon said, his voice low despite us being alone in his apartment the next afternoon. His laptop screen glowed with what looked like university records. "Daniel Morrison. He's listed as Emily Chen's emergency contact from her time at the art college. Listed as her brother."

I stared at the screen, my coffee forgotten. "Emily? My Emily?"

"Your former student, yes." Simon scrolled through the document. "The one you sponsored."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Emily Chen had been a brilliant young sculptor I'd taken under my wing four years ago—a scholarship student with extraordinary talent. She'd drowned during a spring break trip to Maine five years ago. I'd been devastated, had even created a memorial sculpture that now stood in the college's garden.

"That can't be right," I murmured. "What would Michael have to do with Emily's brother? They never even met."

Simon's expression was grim. "Are you sure about that?"

A cold feeling spread through my chest. "Michael was away on that architecture conference in Boston when I first introduced Emily to everyone at our housewarming party. He didn't meet any of my students."

"Maybe they met some other way," Simon suggested, his eyes never leaving the screen. "The question is, why would Emily's brother be contacting Michael now, five years after her death?"

I shook my head, trying to make sense of this bizarre connection. "I need to see more. I need to understand what's happening."

---

That night, I lay beside Michael, listening to his breathing deepen into sleep. The digital clock on his nightstand read 2:17 AM when I finally gathered my courage. With trembling fingers, I reached for his phone.

Thankfully, I knew his passcode—his mother's birthday—and the screen unlocked with a soft glow. I navigated to his message history, scrolling back through time. Nothing unusual in recent months except those cryptic exchanges with "Daniel" that revealed little.

On impulse, I searched for "Emily" and felt my heart stop when several results appeared. Messages from five years ago.

Michael: *We should meet to discuss your portfolio. Dinner Friday?*

Emily: *Thank you for the offer, but I'd prefer to meet at the department.*

Michael: *Don't be so formal. I've seen how you look at me. Let me help your career.*

Emily: *I'm not comfortable with this conversation.*

As I scrolled through more messages, my stomach twisted into knots. Michael's tone grew increasingly insistent, Emily's increasingly desperate.

Emily: *Please stop texting me. I've asked you repeatedly.*

Michael: *Don't be dramatic. I'm just being friendly.*

Emily: *I've saved these messages. Please leave me alone.*

The final message from Emily was dated three days before her drowning accident: *I can't take this anymore. Stop following me.*

The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. My husband—the man sleeping peacefully beside me—had sexually harassed my student. The student who later drowned under circumstances I'd never questioned.

And now someone named Daniel, claiming to be her brother, was meeting Michael in deserted locations and accepting envelopes of what I could only assume was money.

The scattered pieces slammed together in my mind, forming a horrifying picture.

A thought I couldn’t bear—but couldn’t ignore—took root: Did my husband murdered Emily or something? But how possible?

Michael? A murderer? Really?