The Affair

Michelle pulls the door shut behind her as she collapses into the driver's seat of her car. Pent up tears she'd barely contained in the private detective's office she's just left run down her cheeks, spilling onto the file folder containing the results of the investigation into her husband. The stunned silence in the car coupled with her conflicting emotions freeze time; she stares out of the windshield ahead and sees absolutely nothing.

After a moment, she's able to conjure simple questions: How could her husband do such a thing? How could her kind, loving, loyal, faithful husband, Sean, act with such disregard toward her? Never could she have imagined such humiliation and embarassment. She feels the total fool, certainly played like one, damn him! And damn her for being so ignorant and naive.

The questions arrive faster, assailing her mind: Should she have always suspected this? How long has this been going on? Is this the first time? Did she do something wrong? Is this somehow all her fault? Time thaws; her conflicting emotions crash into her heart like tidal waves, drenching her in so much grief, before receding back out to sea to make way for the next...disappointment, sadness, failure, helplessness, disbelief.

Michelle tries to calm herself with shaky, shallow breaths, and is only partly successful. Difficult to breathe when it feels like an elephant sits on your chest.

After several minutes that seem like hours she achieves partial grounding. Shaking her head to herself, as it all makes sense; the secrecy, the money, even that stupid bible verse.

Clarity and understanding hang over her head like an ominous storm cloud threatening destructive weather. She dries her eyes with the back of her hand, and, unable to help herself, opens the file in her lap, thumbs through the report on her husband, then stares down at the picture of Jessica Morton...

*

It all started when she saw the little black book. Not that it was the little black book she was looking for when she went rummaging through Sean's home office; no she was searching for her extra phone cord. Michelle has the worst luck ever when it comes to electronics. This time she'd managed to trip over the cord, jerking and yanking the wire smooth from it's jack; a miracle her phone hadn't nose-dived off the counter. So, her battery was getting low, and Michelle can't stand being phoneless. And if it had been anything other than a little black book sitting there on his desk, she wouldn't have looked twice nor thought once about it...

But it was a little black book, and there it sat, deceptively innocuous. And you must understand that, having not seen one in years all but ensured instantaneous curiosity. As far as she knew, Sean had quit using them altogether years ago. The fact that he had one now seemed odd only insofar as he'd failed to mention it. So why the shadow of forebearance blanketing her curiously as she slowly picked it up; the guilty glance over her shoulder made her feel like she was somehow invading her husband's privacy...

Yet it wasn't enough to stop her from opening it and reading the first page.

*

Michelle met Sean during their final semester of college. They only shared one class, and they might have gone on to graduate without ever speaking had a handful of classmates not decided to meet in the campus library to compare notes before the final exam of the term.

She arrived only moments before Sean, who took the open seat beside her. He set his textbook down, followed by a worn writing tablet slathered with notes; and on top of that, a little black book. For whatever reason, Michelle remembered thinking it absurdly out of place.

Impulsively, she tapped it with a finger and said, "What's this? The little black book where you store the phone numbers of your illicit sexual conquests?"

Her brazen and flirty comment caught him off guard, but he rebounded smoothly with that shy smile, replying, "Why, are you interested in earning your number a spot in it?"

She giggled nervously, her face burning fifty shades of red. Sean kindly pulled her off the spot by opening the black book and showing her all of his notes and recorded information; he explained that when he had a particular or serious project, a little black book was his homebase. There he stored all vital and relevant information such as references, contacts, ideas, thoughts, questions, conclusions; even inspirational quotes or bible verses. His little black books were customized tools that kept him organized and focused.

And so they were. But the last time she recalled him using one was a few years out of college, and she couldn't even recall what that particular project had been.

Well he was obviously using one now, and because of their personal significance, she was a tad surprised that Sean hadn't mentioned it. She wondered what the project was.

Michelle was sure that there was a perfectly reasonable and acceptable explanation.

*

The first page had nothing but a woman's name, underlined, in bold block letters that she recognized as Sean's handwriting. Who the hell was Jessica Morton, Michelle wondered. The next couple pages contained what appeared to be a handful of phone numbers; some with initials above, some without. There was even an email address. Nothing on those pages looked familiar or rang a bell.

Next came pages of days and dates, like a schedule, though it lacked a discernable pattern; an hour or two, every two or three days. The only glaring commonality was that they were all days and times when Sean was at work.

"Supposedly at work," Her mind chided her. Instantly, Michelle felt a pit of dread growing inside her as the purpose of this little black book became suddenly clear: her husband was having an affair.

On the final page of the book was some stupid bible verse that had nothing to do with anything, but it was the receipt of transaction from their bank that made her blood run cold.

Several months ago Sean had inherited twenty thousand dollars when his grandmother passed. Because they were doing well financially, they had agreed to donate the money to a charity of their choosing. They'd whittled the list down to a certain few and Michelle figured they'd settle on one in the coming weeks.

Michelle's mouth went dry and her knees weak as she re-read the bank receipt. According to it, Sean had already withdrawn the twenty thousand dollars several weeks ago.

*

Michelle used her rapidly draining phone battery to photograph every page of the black book; from Jessica's name to that bible verse at the end. She took several of the bank receipt.

After a couple of torturous days debating, she decided to hire a private investigator. Michelle wanted answers, as well as solid proof before confronting Sean.

Some brief research later, she settled on Buster "Bean" Malloy; a retired police detective with over ten years experience in what he called the "private sector". He agreed to see her immediately.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Malloy." Michelle shook his hand as he led her into his office.

"Please, call me 'Bean'," he replied, gesturing to one of the two comfortable-looking chairs in the front of his desk. "As I'm sure you'll agree, time can be of the essence in these matters. Now, I understand you're here because you suspect your husband of infidelity. Why don't you go ahead and start at the beginning."

Bean flipped on a digital recorder, then scribbled notes on paper once Michelle began, interrupting only occasionally with a quick question or for clarity of point. Michelle also turned over all the pictures. His eyebrow's shot up at the bank withdrawl.

"Twenty grand is a nice chunk of change. You're sure he didn't just put it in another of your accounts or something?"

Michelle shook her head. "Not that I can tell."

"And none of the names or phone numbers are familiar?" Bean asked.

"Nothing stands out. I thought about calling the numbers or looking Jessica Morton up on social media, but then decided that I didn't want to tip my hand. I wanted someone impartial and discreet." Bean nodded approvingly. Michelle paused, then said, "Mr., um, Bean? In your experience, like, out of all the similiar cases you've had, does it ever turn out okay? Like, maybe the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding?"

Bean gave her the same sympathetic and reassuring smile that he'd no doubt given hundreds of suspicious spouses over the years when asked the same question. "Well, as the old adage goes, where there's smoke, there's fire. But no two cases are alike. My biggest concern is the missing twenty grand.

"I'll tell you what, let's not jump to any conclusions, okay? You've come to the best in the business, so let me take it from here. I'll be in touch with you as soon as I get something concrete."

Michelle paid his retainer and left with assurances that it shouldn't be long.

It wasn't.

*

Sitting in her car, the open file folder in her lap, Michelle stares down at the picture of the smiling, angelic Jessica Morton. Heartbreakingly beautiful, Michelle concedes, as another tear escapes, crawls down her stricken face.

Jessica looks up at Michelle with a pure, innocent clarity in her big, bright blue eyes. She looks guileless in that way that only a child can be.

Which, at the age of four, is exactly what Jessica Morton is. She is also bald. All of her hair has fallen out from the chemotherapy treatments used in her fight against cancer.

A fight she is losing.

According to Bean's report, Jessica Morton is a four-year-old terminally ill cancer patient with less than three months to live. She resides at St. Matthew's Children's Hospital, where Sean has been volunteering; the days and times aligned perfectly with the schedule in his little black book. The phone numbers were administrators and coordinators at the hospital, and the email address belongs to Jessica's doctor.

And as for the twenty thousand dollars? Sean donated it for cancer research; the cancer that will promptly end Jessica's young life, much too soon.

Another tear slides down Michelle's cheek, and she flips to the end of the file folder; a picture of the bible verse on the last page of the little black book...

*

"But when you do a charitable deed, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, that your charitable deed may be in secret, and your father who sees in secret will himself reward openly." -Matthew 6:3-4