Someone was swimming in Rebecca Montgomery’s pool again.

The water rippled in a way it shouldn’t have at 3:00 p.m. on a Wednesday—an hour when both she and her husband were supposed to be at work. Rebecca stood frozen at the kitchen window, her manicured fingers gripping the handle of her leather briefcase as the realization struck her with physical force.

This was the third time this month.

The crystal-clear surface told a story she had been trying not to hear. Rebecca set her briefcase gently on the granite counter and moved toward the sliding glass door, every step measured, silent. The Montgomery residence was the envy of their affluent neighborhood—four thousand square feet of architectural precision, tucked into a wooded acre, crowned by the magazine-perfect swimming pool Rebecca had insisted on when they bought the house seven years earlier.

Now that same pool felt like an accomplice.

Two damp towels were draped carelessly over a lounge chair, the expensive Egyptian cotton darkened by moisture. A half-empty wine glass sat abandoned on the poolside table. Rebecca’s jaw tightened when she noticed the second glass beside it—lipstick smeared boldly along the rim.

Bright red.

Not hers.

Rebecca favored muted rose tones. Conservative. Controlled. Never red. Never that desperate, attention-seeking shade of crimson.

For six weeks, the signs had been accumulating. Small at first. James suddenly volunteering to manage pool maintenance despite years of complete disinterest. Late nights at the hospital becoming routine—yet the quarterly insurance reports sent to Doctor and Mrs. Montgomery showed fewer logged hours than the year before. Mysterious phone calls taken behind closed doors. His voice lowered. His gaze no longer lingering on her when she dressed in the mornings.

“Evidence,” Rebecca whispered, the lawyer in her awakening instantly. “It’s always about the evidence.”

She had built her reputation as one of the city’s most feared divorce attorneys by assembling airtight cases. She knew how the smallest oversight could collapse an entire claim. How many women had cried in her office describing scenes just like this?

Now she was standing inside her own marital crime scene.

Rebecca crouched at the pool’s edge, running her fingers through the water. Still warm. Recently disturbed. She checked her watch—3:17 p.m. James was scheduled to be in surgery until at least six.

Major valve replacement today. Don’t wait up for dinner.

She straightened her charcoal pencil skirt—a courtroom habit, composure sharpened through years of legal combat—and carefully collected both wine glasses by their stems. Inside, she sealed them in evidence bags and locked them in her home office safe, hidden behind her Yale law degree.

Fingerprints. DNA. Insurance.

In the master bathroom, more proof waited. The shower door stood slightly ajar—James never left it that way. Water droplets still clung to the glass. In the drain, strands of long blonde hair coiled around the grate.

Her own hair was chestnut brown.

She bagged those too.

When James came home after 11 p.m., Rebecca sat in the living room reviewing case files, her expression unreadable. He looked the same—handsome, distinguished, salt-and-pepper hair giving him the air of authority patients trusted instinctively.

“Tough surgery?” she asked evenly.

“The toughest,” he replied, loosening his tie. “Unexpected tear. I’m exhausted.”

He avoided her eyes.

Rebecca nodded. “Of course. Big day tomorrow. The Wilson deposition.”

“Right,” he murmured, already climbing the stairs.

She watched him go, mentally reconstructing the last three months. His sudden obsession with pool chemistry. The expensive equipment. The kiss to her forehead.

I want to take some burden off you. You work too hard.

Now that memory burned.

The next morning, Rebecca followed her routine—then broke it. She parked down the street with a clear view of the driveway.

At 9:32 a.m., a red sports car pulled in.

A young blonde woman stepped out, designer athletic wear hugging a body sculpted with intention. She punched in the gate code without hesitation and walked inside like she belonged.

Rebecca took photos. Time-stamped. Precise.

At the office, she called her investigator.

“I need surveillance on my house,” she said calmly. “Pool area. Cameras. Audio if possible. Today.”

There was a pause.

“Yes, Frank. My house.”

By evening, the cameras were live.

Rebecca didn’t check the feed that night.

Some evidence, she knew, could wait.