What is this?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Marcus.”

“I swear, I have no idea—”

He was already scanning the yard, already moving, already doing something with his hands. The performance of a man who needed a moment to think.

“This has to be some stupid prank,” he said quickly. “Maybe someone got the wrong house.”

“The wrong house.”

“I don’t know, I’m trying to understand it too.”

My phone buzzed in my robe pocket.

The timing made my stomach drop before I even looked at the screen.

Unknown number. No name. Just a video file and three words.

Before you ask him any questions, I think you should see this.

The footage was dark and grainy, shot from what looked like a car parked across the street. I recognized the location — a restaurant downtown I’d been to before. The timestamp in the corner read 10:47 p.m., the previous Friday.

Marcus had told me he was working late that Friday.

On the screen, his car pulled up. He stepped out of the driver’s side. A woman walked into the frame and went straight toward him. Marcus opened his arms and wrapped them around her.

Then the video stopped.

No kiss. No conversation. Just that embrace.

Behind me, Marcus said, “What are you watching?”

I locked the screen.

“Who were you with Friday night?”

His expression went still in a way I recognized. Not guilt exactly — something more calculated. The face of a man deciding which version of a story to use.

“What?”

“Friday. You said you were working late.”

“I was.”

“Who were you with afterward?”

His eyes moved to my phone.

“Danielle, what did they send you?”

They.

One word. He said it without thinking.

“They?” I repeated.

“I meant whoever did this.” He gestured at the car. “What are they trying to prove?”

“No. You said they.“