The Gaslight

The prompt on the screen sat there like a loaded gun. *Hint: Our secret place.*

It wasn't a place. It was a taunt.

Elena closed the browser window. She couldn't log in. Not now. Not while her hands were shaking so badly she could barely feel the keys. She needed to leave the office before the walls started closing in.

She drove home in silence, the radio off, the windows up. The air inside the Audi felt thin, recycled. Every car that passed her looked like Bella’s Jetta. Every truck looked like Mark’s Silverado.

When she pulled into the driveway, the house was dark. Mark’s truck was in the garage, the hood still warm.

Elena walked inside. The kitchen was empty. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the counter. A beer bottle sweated on a coaster.

"Mark?"

"Up here, babe."

His voice came from the bedroom. Relaxed. Easy.

Elena climbed the stairs. She needed to be calm. She needed to be the boring, responsible wife who asked about dinner and tax returns. She couldn't let him see the panic that was clawing at her throat.

Mark was sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots. He looked up and smiled.

"Hey. You're home late."

"Inventory ran long," Elena said, leaning against the doorframe. She didn't cross the threshold. The bedroom felt like his territory now. "I was checking the server logs."

Mark paused. His hands stilled on the laces. "Server logs? Why?"

"Just routine maintenance," Elena said, watching his face. "I noticed some weird traffic last night. A lot of data moving around 3 AM."

Mark pulled his boot off and set it on the floor. "Probably just the cloud backup, El. You know how those updates are. They hog bandwidth."

"It wasn't a backup," Elena said. "It was an upload. To an external IP."

Mark stood up. He walked over to the dresser and picked up his watch. He didn't look at her. "You're overthinking it, honey. It's tax season. You're seeing ghosts in the machine."

"I traced the IP, Mark."

He turned around. The smile was gone. His face was blank, unreadable. "You traced it?"

"To the Cayman Islands."

The silence in the room was absolute. Elena could hear the blood rushing in her ears.

Mark let out a short, incredulous laugh. "The Caymans? Seriously, Elena? What, do you think I'm running a cartel out of the basement?"

"I don't know what you're doing, Mark. But I know that traffic wasn't normal. And I know you changed the admin password."

Mark sighed. He rubbed his face with both hands, a gesture of exaggerated exhaustion. "Okay. You caught me."

Elena’s heart stopped. "What?"

"I got a VPN," Mark said. "For the game. The Buckeyes game was blacked out last week. I set it to some random island so I could watch the stream. I didn't want you to lecture me about 'cybersecurity risks' or whatever, so I just... didn't mention it."

He looked at her with wide, innocent eyes. "That's it, El. I wanted to watch football. I changed the password because I forgot the old one and didn't want to wake you up to ask."

It was a lie. A stupid, clumsy lie. The traffic volume was forty-five gigabytes. You didn't upload forty-five gigs watching a football stream.

But it was a plausible lie. Plausible enough to make her sound crazy if she pushed it.

"And the IP address?" Elena asked. "Why the Caymans?"

"I don't know," Mark shrugged. "I just clicked 'Quick Connect.' It picks a random server." He walked over to her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm. "You're paranoid, El. You've been working eighteen-hour days. You're seeing conspiracies where there's just... football."

"I saw the transactions, Mark. Structuring. The payments to Paradise Imports."

Mark’s hand froze near her ear. His eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

"You're auditing me?"

"I'm the CFO. I audit everyone."

"I'm your husband," Mark said, his voice dropping an octave. "And I told you, those are consulting fees. Legitimate expenses. You're acting like I'm stealing from my own family."

"Are you?"

Mark stepped back. He looked at her with a mix of pity and disgust.

"You need to sleep, Elena. You're not making sense. You sound like your mother when she forgets her meds, El."