The police called out of the blue: ‘We found your missing son at a bus stop.’ I told them I didn’t have a son. They pleaded, ‘Please come.’ When I walked into the station, I froze—standing there was someone I never expected…

The call came at 2:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, a shrill, digital scream that ripped me from the first decent sleep I’d had in months. My phone’s harsh ring cut through the profound silence of my empty apartment, the one I’d been renting since I moved out of the house I’d shared with my wife for eight years. The house where I discovered her betrayal three months ago, captured in vivid, soul-crushing detail through the private investigator’s photographs and the audio recordings I’d made myself.