I FOUND HIS OLD PHONE HIDDEN INSIDE THE BROKEN COFFEE MAKER
Dust bunnies clung to the corner as I reached for the unplugged machine abandoned deep inside the dark garage. Lifting it, the overwhelming *smell* of stale, burnt coffee grounds hit me, thick and unpleasant. Why was it so much heavier than it should be? I gave it a shake, and something hard rattled around inside the cracked plastic casing. A strange, cold curiosity washed over me.
I grabbed a screwdriver and pried open the bottom panel. A small, ancient flip phone tumbled out onto the concrete floor with a dull, cheap plastic thud. The screen was totally dead. I found a charging cable buried in a forgotten junk drawer and plugged it in. The screen blinked on, casting a *harsh, sickly blue light* onto my hands.
It was packed with old texts and call logs. Names I absolutely didn’t recognize, dating back years before we even met. One name, “Sara,” kept appearing over and over. My heart started hammering against my ribs. I scrolled frantically through messages that made less and less sense. He walked in, carrying groceries, just as I saw a recent text: “Did she find out about the money transfer yet? We need to move faster.”
My breath hitched. My stomach twisted into a hard knot. “Who is ‘Sara’ and what money transfer are they talking about?” I choked out, holding up the glowing phone. His face drained of all color, eyes wide with pure panic. It wasn’t just another woman; it was something about money. Something big, something hidden for years.
Then the screen lit up again with an incoming call from the name “Accountant”.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*”Accountant,” the phone blared, mocking the silence that had suddenly descended upon the garage. He stared at the phone like it was a venomous snake, completely frozen.
“Answer it,” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. “Put it on speaker. Now!”
He hesitated, then grabbed the phone, his hand shaking so violently he almost dropped it. He pressed the speaker button.
“Hello?” he croaked.
A crisp, professional voice crackled from the speaker. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davies. I’m calling with a crucial update regarding the… *investment portfolio.* We’ve detected unusual activity. A significant attempt was made to access the off-shore account, but thankfully, security protocols prevented the transaction. It appears someone was attempting to bypass the usual verification procedures.”
His face was now slick with sweat. “I… I wasn’t aware of any activity,” he stammered.
“Indeed. The individual used a dormant access code from several years ago. It raises some serious concerns. We need to review your security settings immediately and determine who has this information.”
My mind raced. The “Sara” he had been texting must be involved. Were they planning to steal from him? Or were they stealing from *us*? The phone felt heavier than lead in my hand.
I stepped forward. “Ask him who else knows about this account,” I instructed, my voice surprisingly steady.
He looked at me, pleadingly. “I… I can’t.”
“Ask him!” I roared.
He reluctantly turned back to the phone. “Who else… who else has access to this information?”
There was a pause. “Only yourself, Mr. Davies, and… a former associate, Sara Jenkins. She was removed from the account several years ago following… concerns about her handling of client funds. We flagged her then and haven’t heard from her since. Until now, apparently.”
Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. It wasn’t about me. It was about him and some past transgression.
“Ask him what happened with Sara Jenkins,” I urged, more calmly now.
He relayed the question, his voice barely a whisper. The accountant hesitated. “Mr. Davies, I’m not sure I’m at liberty to discuss… ”
“I know everything,” I interrupted, grabbing the phone from his trembling hand. “Just tell me the truth.”
The accountant sighed. “Sara Jenkins embezzled a substantial amount of money from several client accounts, including Mr. Davies’s. The funds were recovered, but she was never prosecuted due to… certain agreements made to protect Mr. Davies’s reputation. It was a messy situation.”
He was silent, head bowed. The full weight of his deception finally crashed down on me. He hadn’t been having an affair; he’d been protecting a secret from his past, a secret that had now come back to haunt him.
I hung up the phone. The silence was deafening. I looked at him, not with anger, but with a deep, aching sadness. He had built our entire life on a foundation of lies and secrets.
“Why?” I asked, the question hanging in the air.
He finally looked up, tears welling in his eyes. “I was young, foolish. I made a mistake. I was ashamed. I never wanted you to know.”
“And you thought hiding it, letting it fester, was better?”
He shook his head miserably.
The phone buzzed again. The caller ID read: “Accountant.” I handed it back to him. “Answer it,” I said. “This time, tell him the truth.”
I walked out of the garage, leaving him alone with his past. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: our life together would never be the same. He had a lot of explaining to do, and I had a lot of thinking to do. Perhaps, with honesty and a lot of hard work, we could rebuild. Or perhaps, some foundations are too damaged to repair. Only time would tell.