Her phone buzzes with an incoming message from Timmy:
Timmy:
Can you bring me some ibuprofen? My head’s killing me.
She glares at the screen. I watch as her fingers hover over the keyboard before she locks the phone and tosses it onto the couch.Good. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
A few minutes later, the door to the back room creaks open, and Timmy steps out, scratching his head like he’s just woken up. “What’s for dinner?” he asks, as if the past few hours of silence weren’t his doing.
Margaux doesn’t look at him. “Figure it out yourself.”
He snorts. “What’s your problem now?”
From the laptop feed, I see her jaw tighten. “You’remy problem, Timmy.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off-guard. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m tired of this. Ofyou. Ofeverything.”
His face twists into a sneer. “Oh,you’retired? That’s rich, coming from someone who spends all day sitting on her ass.”
I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to scream at the screen. If I were there, I’d knock that smug look right off his face.
Margaux stands, her voice steady but icy. “You’re unbelievable. Get out of my face, Timmy.”
Once Timmy retreats, I get to work. I log into his phone and adjust his Find My iPhone settings to show him spending hours at sketchy spots around town—the meth tents, the abandoned parking lot nearby, even the strip club down the road.
Margaux’s been watching his location obsessively, trying to make sense of his chaos. This will give her plenty to think about.
I plant more breadcrumbs on his devices: fake messages from fake contacts, notifications from accounts he doesn’t even have. Margaux needs to see it all—the lies, the deception, the sheer stupidity.
Every seed of doubt I plant is another crack in the foundation of their relationship. And when it finally collapses, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.
Later that night, Timmy passes out on the bed, leaving Margaux alone with her thoughts. She stares at the TV, but her eyes are unfocused. From the corner camera, I can see the exhaustion etched into her face, the weight of everything crushing her.
I type a message to her laptop:
Anonymous:
You don’t deserve this. You know that, right?
She freezes, her eyes darting to the screen. For a moment, she looks around the room, as if expecting to find someone there. Then, slowly, she types back:
Margaux:
Who is this?
I hesitate for a moment before responding:
Me:
Someone who cares.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling. She doesn’t reply.
But she doesn’t close the laptop, either.
It’s a start.