Page 35 of Isolation

Mateo leaned back, his six-foot-four frame taking up most of our custom sectional, his throat exposed as he threw his head back. “Man, when that ball went in, I swear Coach almost swallowed his whistle. Eyes were as big as dinner plates.”

Mason howled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and Mateo scooped him up, tickling his sides until my baby’s laughter turned high-pitched and happy.

I could walk over there, sink into the cushions beside them, let Mateo’s arm slide around my shoulders, and pretend we’re just a regular family celebrating Daddy’s big break. His sudden rise from bench-warmer to starting player had transformed our lives with media attention and the whispers of endorsement deals—the perfect story, except I knew better.

I silently retreated three steps backward into the hallway where their joy became muffled and distant enough that I could think straight again. I moved through our condo silently past the framed jerseys and the fresh flowers I arranged this morning, pretending everything was normal. My bare feet made no sound on the heated floors as I slipped toward the terrace door.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across our private corner of urban luxury. The terrace wrapped around one side of the building, but I headed for the small nook we created with privacy screens and potted bamboo. It was my space where I came to make calls about Mateo’s schedule or to have my morning coffee while the city woke up. Mateo rarely came out here.Good.Some secrets needed space to breathe.

The air felt different out here, cleaner somehow. It was away from the weight of what was happening inside. Our little fire pit sat in the center of the nook surrounded by smooth stones I picked out myself when we moved in.“For romantic evenings,”I’d told Mateo with a smile he’d returned. His eyes were hungry in a way that used to make my stomach flip.

I glanced back through the glass door. From here, I could still see them—Mateo now showing Mason how to palm a basketball with his tiny hands properly. My son’s face was a study in concentration, desperate to be just like his daddy.

“Fuck,” I whispered, the word dissolving in the breeze.

I kneeled beside the stone bench that doubled as storage. The latch was hidden beneath a decorative panel that slid away with pressure from my fingertips. I pulled the burner phone and USB out of my pocket from the safe. Yeah, I checked the safe and realized Mateo hadn’t really changed the combination. These items contained all the puzzle pieces I’d collected since Mateo started acting strange three months ago.

My PR background taught me to always keep receipts, always have an escape plan. I pressed the power button on the phone, watching it come to life one last time. Some of the texts were still there—nothing explicit enough to be a smoking gun but enough patterns to form a picture I couldn’t unsee.

The matches were right where they should be, nestled in a waterproof container. I struck one, watching the flame dance momentarily before lowering it to the kindling already arranged in the fire pit. The wood caught quickly, dry and eager, just like the career Mateo had been chasing all these years.

“Mommy?”

Mason’s voice startled me. I turned to find him standing at the glass door with his small hand pressed against it and curious eyes.

“What are you doing?”

I forced a smile. “Enjoying the fire pit, baby. Mommy’s thinking.”

“Can I think with you?”

Behind him, Mateo appeared. I knew he saw the burner phone and USB in my hand, and I purposely threw them in the fire while he watched.

“Let Mommy have her space,” Mateo said. His eyes met mine across the distance. Something passed between us—a question from him and an answer from me that wasn’t entirely honest.

“I’ll be right in. Just enjoying the view,” I replied, keeping my voice light.

Mateo nodded, steering Mason back toward the living room. I watched them go, my husband’s broad back, my son’s trusting posture as he allowed himself to be guided away. When they were gone, I turned back to the fire. I watched as the plastic began to warp and bubble. The flash drive’s metal components were more resistant but equally doomed. Black smoke curled upward, disappearing into the vastness above our building. Evidence became nothing but air and memory.

My face was hot from the fire. What I was doing wasn’t just destroying evidence. It was making a choice. Staying meant complicity. It meant I believed Mateo’s version of events over what my gut was screaming. It meant I was the woman I swore I’d never become—turning a blind eye for the sake of comfort and status.

But leaving? With what proof? With a five-year-old who worshiped his father? With nothing but suspicions that would sound like the bitter accusations of a woman scorned?

The plastic melted completely, circuitry exposed and burned with small blue flames. I prodded it with a poker, making sure nothing remained intact. The acrid smell filled my nostrils, burning away any last doubt about what I was doing.

I wasn’t destroying evidence to protect Mateo. I destroyed it to protect Mason and me. Because right now, in this moment between knowing and acting, I needed time, time to plan, time to watch, time to be certain.

The evidence was nothing but twisted, blackened remnants now. I stirred them once more, breaking them into unrecognizable pieces. The sun descended behind the city skyline. From here, everything looked perfect, ordered, and under control. I took a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air and made my silent promise. I’d be watching… waiting. And if what I suspected was true, if Mateo crossed lines that couldn’t be uncrossed, I wouldn’t burn the next batch of evidence. I’d use it.

I rose to my feet, closed the hidden compartment, and put on the face that got me through countless PR crises in my previous life, the face that said everything was fine, the face of a loyal wife standing proudly beside her rising-star husband. Some masks weren’t worn for others. They were armor for yourself.

Stepping back inside, I closed the door on the smoldering remains of the truth and walked toward the sound of my family’s laughter. My steps were measured and calm. Mateo looked up as I entered. His smile was easy and warm as he extended his hand toward me.

I took it, interlacing my fingers with his, feeling the strength in his grip. These were the same hands that might have done things I couldn’t think about right now. I smiled back, the perfect picture of a supportive wife and mother.

No one needed to know I’d already memorized every exit.

Playoff season turnedour lives into a highlight reel—each day another performance, another camera flash, another interview where Mateo flashed that million-dollar smile that was suddenly worth every penny. It had been three weeks since I burned those pieces of evidence, and now we were living in a world where sportscasters debated my husband’s “unexpectedrise” like it was some kind of basketball miracle, the kind that got you Jordan-level Nike deal conversations, the kind that had white women at charity galas touching my braids and asking if I’d always known Mateo would be this successful, the kind that was building our lives on a foundation I knew had cracks, even if no one else could see them yet.

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