Rachel called that night.
“Please tell me that isn’t actually your house.”
“It is.”
There was a long silence.
Then she asked, “What are you going to do?”
I looked at the latest camera footage.
Melissa was floating in my pool.
Jake sat nearby drinking a beer.
Neither looked remotely concerned.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.
“If it were me, I’d call the police.”
I considered it.
Technically, I probably could.
But the more I thought about it, the less satisfying it seemed.
The police would show up.
Melissa would leave.
Maybe she would get a warning.
Maybe she would face some minor consequences.
And then it would all be over.
No.
What she had done deserved something more memorable.
Something she would never forget.
Over the next few days, I continued acting completely normal.
I sent occasional texts.
Thanked her for helping.
Asked about Oliver.
Pretended I had no idea what was happening.
Meanwhile, I downloaded every piece of footage.
Every party.
Every guest.
Every lie.
Every violation.
The evidence kept piling up.
And Melissa kept getting more comfortable.
By the time my flight home was approaching, I thought I had seen the worst of it.
Then one of my neighbors sent me screenshots from Melissa’s social media.
