He Called Me Stale, She's Only 25

Sometimes a woman's intuition is just that sharp.

It was Friday night, and Marcus was in the shower. I could hear him humming some old military tune, the sound bouncing off the bathroom tiles. I had my patient notes spread across the coffee table, prepping for Monday's sessions, when his phone lit up.

Local number. No name.

I glanced at the bathroom door. Steam was already creeping out from underneath. Marcus and his twenty-minute showers, another leftover habit from his Marine days.

The phone buzzed again. Same number.

"Hello?" I picked up without thinking twice.

Dead silence. Not the confused kind when someone dials wrong. This felt deliberate. Like whoever was on the other end knew exactly who they'd reached, and that somehow mattered.

Click.

I stared at the dark screen. Something about those few seconds of nothing made my skin crawl. Call it professional paranoia, but after years of reading people for a living, you develop a sixth sense for when things aren't quite right.

Marcus kept his phone unlocked around me. Had for years. One of those small relationship milestones that feels bigger than it should.

I scrolled to recent calls and found the number. It had a name attached.

Emma Wilson.

No photo. Notifications silenced. Their text thread was practically empty except for one unread message that made my stomach flip.

"I miss you."

Sent eighteen minutes ago.

My hands went clammy. Marcus was cheating. The thought arrived with the same clinical detachment I used to deliver difficult diagnoses. Clean. Factual. Devastating.

But Emma Wilson. Why did that name ring a bell?

Her social media painted the picture. Young, blonde, probably mid-twenties. The kind of girl who looked like she'd never had a bad day in her life. Her bio read: "Psychology grad student at BU. Specializing in trauma recovery."

My throat tightened.

She'd been sharing academic articles, typical grad student stuff. But one post from three days ago stopped me cold. A research paper titled "Emotional Dependency in PTSD Patients" with her commentary: "Amazing what you can learn with real case access."

In the corner of her post was a cropped screenshot. I couldn't make out everything, but I caught enough. A psychological evaluation header. The kind I filled out for every patient.

This girl had access to confidential files.

I switched to Marcus's banking app, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts. If I was going down this rabbit hole, might as well see how deep it went.

The numbers told their own story. Transfers to Emma Wilson going back three months. Small at first, two or three hundred here and there. Then bigger chunks. Three thousand a month labeled "Research Consultation." Yesterday's payment jumped out: five hundred dollars with the memo "For dinner tonight."

Her response: "Can't wait. Miss you already."

I was funding my husband's affair with clinic money.

The shower stopped. I fumbled to close everything, placing his phone back where I'd found it. When Marcus walked out with a towel wrapped around his waist, I forced myself to look up from my notes like nothing had happened.

He still looked good. Six years since his brother Henry first sent him my way, and Marcus had kept that lean build that caught my eye back when doctor-patient boundaries still meant something.

Watch his face, I told myself. See what he gives away.

"Someone called," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Hung up without saying anything."

Marcus grabbed his phone. His thumb hesitated over the screen for just a beat too long. Classic tell.

"Probably spam," he said, already moving toward the dresser. "You know how it is."

He pulled out jeans and a sweater, then reached for his vape pen. "Gonna step outside for a minute."

Of course. Return her text in private.

When he came back, he was putting on his jacket.

"Hey babe, I need to head out. Dr. Peterson's got an emergency. Some guy just came in with severe combat trauma, and they want someone who's been there to talk him down."

The lie was almost artistic. Specific enough to sound real, professional enough to play on my sympathy, urgent enough to justify running out at nine PM.

"Tom's meeting me there," he added, pocketing his keys. "Could be all night. Don't wait up."

I nodded. "Drive safe."

After the door closed, I sat alone with the weight of what I'd discovered. Our wedding photo smiled down at me from the mantel. Me at thirty-four, glowing in my dress. Him at thirty-one in his dress blues, that crooked grin that first melted my defenses during coffee after our final session.

Questions churned through my head. Why Emma? How long had this been going on? And why couldn't I shake the feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before?

Then it clicked.

I knew where I'd met Emma Wilson. Face to face.

That changed everything.