Page 12 of Isolation

That was the night he told me he was going to bed with a migraine. I woke up to an empty bed at 3:00 a.m., only for him to slip back in bed around 4:00 a.m. He claimed he’d been on the couch, not wanting to disturb me. He wore a hoodie in the image, and I zoomed in to study the details the way I did when I was at the firm preparing for damage control. His body language was purposeful, not like someone casually going for a late-night workout.

I wondered who sent this and why. I tapped the profile, but there was nothing there, no information, posts, or followers for that matter. It seemed as if it was created just to send this message. I leaned back, allowing the implications to wash over me. Whatever Mateo was involved in, someone clearly thought I should know.I remembered that the following day he appeared exhausted.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked, pouring a cup of coffee.

Mateo blinked in confusion momentarily. “Oh, yeah. That migraine finally let up.”

I was tired of overthinking and wanted to chalk it up as pressure on the team and the sudden expectations and attention. I also wondered how many more lies I’d failed to question.

Still, he wasn’t fighting a migraine in our bed at 1:45 a.m. He was sneaking off to the practice facility. The following day, I questioned him about it.

“I had to clear my head.”

His words had a high-pitched edge to them when his voice was usually deep. I stared at the image again and realized I didn’t recognize this man, the one I married and the father of my child.

My phone buzzed with another message from the catfish account?—

Check the sports news the night before his big game.

I opened the browser tab and searched for Wizard news from that time period. The top result made my stomach drop.

Wizard starter DeAndre Pearson out with an Undisclosed Injury

Pearson was the starting shooting guard—the position Mateo took over. The article offered no other details except thatPearson would be out indefinitely. This sounded more serious than what Mateo had mentioned.

He shouldn’t have been in the way.

I closed my laptop. No, Mateo wouldn’t, not for a game, not for playing time, or anything for that matter.

However, the evidence was stacking up in ways I couldn’t ignore. Too many weird facts popping up. I picked up my phone, and I was tempted to threaten to sue them for harassment.

Instead, I typed:

What do you want?

The response came right back:

I thought you’d want to know who you were sleeping beside.

I set the phone down. My brain shifted into PR crisis management mode. The first rule of damage control was to gather all the facts before I could take action. I needed more information before making any decisions.

I opened a new document on my laptop and started a timeline:

Three weeks ago, DeAndre Pearson suffered an undisclosed injury.

Mateo got his first significant playing time and scored twenty-two points.

Mateo has had several secretive phone calls and unexplained absences.

Three nights ago, he claimed to be in bed with a migraine but was spotted at the practice facility.

Phone call stating he shouldn’t have been in the way.

I stared at the outline and wondered if any of it was a coincidence or something more sinister. The Mateo I knew wouldn’t hurt someone for personal gain, but I wasn’t so sure about Mateo from the phone call.

I opened a drawer and pulled out a notebook, one I’d used for years to track important dates, Mateo’s game schedule, even Mason’s doctor appointments. I flipped to a blank page and documented everything I could remember from the phone call word for word.It felt ridiculous, like I was building a case against my own husband, but something in my gut told me I needed to protect myself and have records in case anything popped off.

I heard the bedroom door open down the hall followed by Mateo’s footsteps heading toward the kitchen. I closed the notebook quickly and slid it into my desk drawer. I switched the laptop screen to a random shopping site just as he appeared in the doorway.

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