What the Dashcam Kept

“Good morning,” I said, though the words came out faint and dry.

Mark eased away from me and studied my face. “Are you feeling all right? You look washed out.”

“I barely slept,” I told him. “I kept imagining what might have happened to you.”

His expression gentled, regret arranged carefully across his features. It was an impressive performance. Without the recording in my mind, I might have mistaken it for the truth.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “I’m okay. That’s what counts.”

He went to the counter and filled a cup from the coffee maker. “I have to get in touch with the insurance people. They may want a police report, and I never called anyone. I was too rattled. Do you think that’ll cause trouble?”

“Hard to say,” I replied, letting a pause settle between us. “They could ask to see the dashcam video.”

Mark stopped moving.

I could only see his back, but his shoulders tightened. The mug hung halfway to his lips. For a few seconds, the kitchen seemed to hold its breath with us.

“The dashcam,” he said at last, lowering the cup by degrees. Then he faced me, his gaze moving over my expression as if he expected to find a clue. “Right.”

“I checked the memory card earlier,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

He swallowed. His chest barely rose. “What did you find?”

“The power lead had come loose,” I said, wearing a puzzled look. “Maybe it happened when you hit the mailbox. The card is empty. There’s no recording.”

Relief crossed his face so strongly that he rocked slightly on his feet. His posture loosened all at once. He breathed out, then gave a strained little laugh.

“That’s a pain,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I should’ve made sure the cable was in. I’ll have to explain it to them myself. The dog, the curb, the whole thing.”

“I suppose you will,” I said, quietly matching his tone. “You’ll tell them what happened.”

He came over, kissed my cheek, and said he was going upstairs to shower before starting work online.

I stood still as he left the kitchen. The man I had loved no longer seemed to exist. The person climbing the stairs was someone else, someone capable of meeting my eyes while deceiving me without a flicker.

When I heard the water start, I took out my phone and signed in to the cellular account we shared.

I needed a name for the woman.

The words from the recording returned: I’m pregnant, Mark. They sounded in my thoughts with the force of an alarm.

I downloaded the previous month’s statement. My own calls went by first, then his conversations with his mother and his law office. I searched the message records line by line.

The unusual pattern appeared before long.

One number, from our area. Close to three hundred messages in a month. Many sent during office hours. Others came well after midnight, when I was in bed. Some arrived in tight bursts just before he said he would be working late.

I copied the number into my phone’s contact lookup, hoping it might connect to a public profile or a company listing.

Nothing came up at first.

I tried Facebook. The search returned no match.

Instagram gave me no better result.

Then I opened a web browser and entered the number with its area code.

A digital business-card site for a small event-planning firm appeared near the top of the results.

Chloe Davis. Lead Coordinator.

My breath snagged. For a moment, I couldn’t draw air into my lungs.

Chloe Davis.

The name brought her face back to me at once.

She was twenty-six, with lively brown eyes and dark hair. Two months earlier, Mark and I had hired her to arrange the party for our tenth anniversary vow renewal.

She had been in our living room. She had accepted a cup of my tea. She had asked which flowers I liked best and recorded my answer on her tablet. She had smiled at Lily and told me my daughter was lovely.

All the while, she had been having an affair with my husband.

I could still hear Mark’s earlier question: You’re letting her handle this silly anniversary party?

He had not merely betrayed me. He had let the woman he was seeing come into our home and organize a tribute to our marriage. He had watched me grin and pay her company. The humiliation felt almost like a blow.

My phone shuddered against the marble counter.

A name appeared on the screen.

Chloe Davis.

I looked at it without moving. This was the woman who had struggled over the steering wheel. The woman who was carrying Mark’s baby.

I let the phone ring three times. I drew a measured breath and brushed the wetness from my eyes.

Then I answered.

“Hello?” My voice came out bright, smooth, and entirely ordinary.

“Hi, Claire!” Chloe said through the speaker. Her voice sounded a little tight, missing some of its usual bounce, but she carried on. “It’s Chloe. I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to settle the catering choices for Saturday’s party. Do you have a minute?”