My Wife Thought Room 317 Was Her Secret… Until I W…

Three drinks later, I made a call to Barry Hoffman, an ex-cop turned private investigator who owed me a favor from when I had helped restructure his brother’s failing business. “I need surveillance,” I said when he answered. “Discreet, thorough, and immediate.”

“Who’s the target?” Barry asked.

“My wife,” I replied, my voice betraying no emotion. “And Vincent Larson.”

Barry gave a low whistle. “The Vincent Larson?

Good grief, John. Can you do it?”

“Yeah, I can do it. But are you sure you want to know?”

I watched as the evening lights of Denver flickered on, casting long shadows across my dashboard.

“I already know, Barry. What I need is proof.”

For the next two weeks, I lived a double life. During the day, I was Jonathan Carter, devoted husband and successful investment banker.

I smiled at my wife over breakfast, kissed her goodbye, and asked about her day over dinner. At night, while she claimed to be working late or meeting friends, I received updates from Barry. The hardest part was not the deception.