My Husband Let Me Go Out Of Spite… I Sent A Selfie With A Guy And He Said, “I’m Done.”

What would you do if after one reckless selfie, your husband replied, "I'm done." And by sunrise, your secrets were already in his lawyer's hands? I thought I was teaching Simon a lesson about trust and jealousy. Instead, I handed him everything he needed to destroy me. My name is Avidia Maltravés, and this is how I lost everything in a single night.

The living room felt like a courtroom as I paced in front of Simon, who sat motionless on our leather couch. His dispatch's calm infuriating me more with each passing second. The evening news droned in the background, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

"I'm going out with the girls tonight," I announced, crossing my arms. "And I don't want to hear a single complaint about it."

Simon looked up from his tablet, those steady brown eyes giving nothing away. At 36, he'd perfected the art of emotional neutrality, a skill that served him well as a 911 dispatcher, but drove me absolutely insane as his wife.

"Okay." He said simply, returning to his screen.

That wasn't the reaction I wanted. I needed him to fight me, to give me ammunition for what I'd been planning for weeks.

"That's it? Just okay? Most husbands would at least ask where their wives are going on a Friday night."

"Where are you going, Avidia?" His voice held no curiosity, just mild compliance.

I felt my carefully constructed argument beginning to crumble, so I doubled down. "Downtown, to Pulse nightclub, with my co-workers." I watched his face for any flicker of jealousy or concern. "There will probably be guys there. Lots of guys. Single guys who know how to appreciate a woman."

Simon set down his tablet and looked at me fully. "Have fun."

"Have fun?" My voice pitched higher. "That's what you're going with? Your wife tells you she's going to a nightclub full of men, and you tell her to have fun?"

"What would you like me to say, Avidia?" There it was. That maddeningly reasonable tone that made me feel like I was losing my mind. I could hear our 9-year-old daughter, Eliza, moving around upstairs, probably listening to every word through the thin walls of our suburban home. A normal husband would care. A normal husband would be concerned about his wife going out dressed to kill, drinking with strange men, dancing until all hours.

"Are you planning to do something I should be concerned about?" The question hung in the air like a trap. I felt heat rise in my cheeks as I scrambled for the moral high ground I'd somehow lost. "I shouldn't have to explain myself to you, Simon. I work hard. I take care of this house. I raise our daughter. I deserve a night out without the third degree."

"I agree."

"And if some attractive man wants to buy me a drink or dance with me, maybe I'll Wait, what?"

"I said I agree. You work hard. You deserve a night out." Simon stood up, his 6-ft frame unfolding with deliberate calm. "Do whatever you want, Avidia. I'm not going to stop you."

This was all wrong. I'd spent days crafting this fight in my head, preparing for his jealousy, his controlling behavior, his desperate attempts to keep me home. Instead, he was practically pushing me out the door.

"Fine," I snapped. "Maybe I will do whatever I want. Maybe I'll stay out all night. Maybe I'll come home with stories that will make you wish you'd paid more attention to your wife."

Simon walked to the kitchen and began loading the dishwasher. "Eliza has soccer practice at 9:00 tomorrow morning. I'll take her."

I stared at his back, feeling completely deflated. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I needed him to be unreasonable, controlling, jealous, anything that would justify what I'd already set in motion.

"You're unbelievable," I muttered, storming upstairs to get ready.

In our master bedroom, I threw open my closet and pulled out the black dress I'd bought specifically for tonight. It was shorter than anything I'd worn in years, with a neckline that would definitely turn heads. As I changed, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror, and felt a surge of satisfaction. At 33, I still had it.

I could hear Simon moving around downstairs, probably cleaning up after dinner like he did every night. The routine of our marriage felt suffocating suddenly. Work, dinner, homework help, bedtime stories, repeat. When was the last time I'd felt truly alive? When was the last time someone had looked at me like I was irresistible?

My phone buzzed with a text from Brent Soloway, the dental hygienist who'd been making me feel exactly that way for the past 2 months. "Still meeting tonight? Can't wait to see you."

I typed back quickly, "Absolutely. Wear something that photographs well."

As I applied my makeup with extra care, I thought about how this had all started. Brent had joined our dental practice in January, and the attraction had been immediate. He was 34, married like me, but unlike Simon, he knew how to make a woman feel special. The flirtation had been innocent at first. Compliments about my hair, lingering looks across the office, finding excuses to work closely together. But innocent had evolved into something much more dangerous.

"Mom?" Eliza's voice came from the doorway. "Are you going somewhere?"

I turned to see my daughter standing there in her pajamas, her dark hair, so much like Simon's, falling in waves around her shoulders. She looked smaller than usual, younger than her 9 years.

"Just out with some friends, sweetheart. Daddy will be here."

"Why are you dressed up so fancy?" The question was innocent, but it made me feel suddenly exposed.

"Sometimes mommy's like to feel pretty when they go out."

Eliza nodded, but her expression remained troubled. "Are you and Daddy fighting?"

"No, baby. Everything's fine." The lie came easily. "Go brush your teeth. I'll come say goodnight before I leave."

After Eliza disappeared down the hall, I finished getting ready and checked my reflection one final time. The woman in the mirror looked confident, attractive, ready for adventure. She definitely didn't look like someone who spent her days coordinating dental appointments and her evenings helping with fourth-grade math homework.

Downstairs, Simon was wiping down the kitchen counters with his usual methodical precision. He glanced up when I entered, and for just a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"You look nice," he said neutrally.

"Thank you." I grabbed my purse and keys, then hesitated. Some part of me, a part I'd been trying to silence for weeks, wanted him to stop me, to fight for me, to show me that our marriage still mattered to him. But Simon just returned to his cleaning.

"I'll probably be late," I said. "Don't wait up."

"Drive safely."

I stood there for another moment, waiting for something, an argument, a plea, even a question about when I'd be home. Instead, Simon moved to the living room and picked up his tablet again, effectively dismissing me. Fine. If he didn't care enough to fight for his wife, maybe it was time I found someone who did.

I walked out into the cool October evening, my heels clicking against the concrete driveway. As I got into my car, I glanced back at our house, the house we'd bought when Eliza was 2, the house where we'd planned to grow old together. The living room window glowed warmly, and I could see Simon's silhouette on the couch. He looked completely unbothered by his wife's departure.

As I drove toward downtown, I felt my phone buzz with another text from Brent. "Just got to Pulse. Got us a booth in the VIP section. This is going to be perfect." Perfect. Yes, that's exactly what tonight would be. I was going to feel desired again, appreciated again. I was going to remember what it was like to be the center of someone's attention. And if Simon didn't like it, well, that was his problem.

What I didn't know was that Simon had been expecting this night for weeks. What I didn't know was that he'd been documenting every escalating provocation, every late night girls' night, every suspicious text and secretive phone call. What I didn't know was that my husband, the man I'd dismissed as weak and uninterested, had been three steps ahead of me all along.

Pulse nightclub was exactly what I'd hoped for. Loud, crowded, and full of the kind of energy that had been missing from my life for years. The bass thumped through the floor as I made my way through the crowd, scanning for Brent's familiar face. I found him in the VIP section, just as promised. He'd secured a curved booth with a perfect view of the dance floor, and when he saw me approaching, his face lit up in a way that made my stomach flutter.

"Wow," he said, standing to greet me. "You look absolutely incredible."

Brent Soloway was everything Simon wasn't. Spontaneous, attentive, dangerous. His sandy hair was perfectly styled and his smile held promises that made me feel reckless. As a dental hygienist, he understood the importance of appearance and it showed in every carefully chosen detail of his outfit.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," I replied, sliding into the booth beside him.

The night unfolded like a fantasy. Brent ordered bottle service, making sure my champagne glass never emptied. We talked about everything, work, dreams, the suffocating routine of married life. He listened to me complain about Simon's emotional distance, his lack of passion, his maddening calm in the face of everything.

"He doesn't deserve you," Brent said during a lull in the music. "A woman like you should be worshipped, not taken for granted."

The words went straight to my head, mixing dangerously with the alcohol. When Brent suggested we dance, I didn't hesitate. On the dance floor, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies moving to the rhythm, I felt more alive than I had in years. Brent's hands found my waist, pulling me closer as we moved together. The space between us disappeared entirely and I could feel the heat of his body against mine.

"Your husband is an idiot," he whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my neck.

"Don't talk about him," I whispered back. "Tonight he doesn't exist."

But that wasn't entirely true. Even as I lost myself in Brent's attention, part of me was thinking about Simon sitting at home, probably already asleep, completely unaware of what his wife was doing. The thought should have made me feel guilty. Instead, it made me feel powerful.

Back at our booth, Brent ordered another bottle of champagne. The VIP section gave us privacy from the main crowd and our conversation grew more intimate, more dangerous. "I can't stop thinking about you at work," Brent confessed. "Watching you coordinate appointments, seeing you smile at patients, it drives me crazy knowing you go home to someone who doesn't appreciate what he has."

"Simon and I are basically roommates at this point," I heard myself saying. "We haven't been intimate in months."

"He's more interested in his dispatch reports than his own wife." It wasn't entirely true. Our physical relationship had cooled, but it wasn't non-existent. But the lie felt good to tell. Felt like justification for the electricity I felt every time Brent's hand brushed mine.

"His loss," Brent said, his fingers tracing patterns on my wrist. "If you were my wife, I'd never let you feel neglected."

The champagne and the attention were making me bold. "Show me," I challenged.

Brent's eyes darkened. "Here."

"Why not? We're adults. We can do whatever we want." What happened next felt like stepping off a cliff. Brent pulled me closer, his hand sliding around my waist possessively. The photographer who worked the VIP section approached our booth, offering to take pictures for the club's social media.

"Yes," I said before Brent could object. "Take our picture."

As the photographer positioned us, Brent's hand tightened on my waist, pulling me against his side. I could feel the solid warmth of his body, smell his cologne, sense the barely contained desire radiating from him.

"Closer," the photographer instructed. "Perfect. Now smile." The flash went off, capturing us in a moment that looked exactly like what it was, two people who were definitely not married to each other, lost in mutual attraction.

"Want me to take a few more?" the photographer asked.

"Absolutely," I said, feeling reckless and alive. We posed for several more shots, each one more intimate than the last. In the final photo, Brent's face was close enough to mine that we could have been kissing, his hand clearly visible on my waist, my expression one of pure intoxication, and not just from the champagne.

"Send them to me," I told the photographer, giving him my number. Within minutes, the photos appeared in my text messages. Looking at them, I felt a thrill of excitement mixed with something darker. The woman in those pictures looked nothing like Simon's wife, nothing like Eliza's mother. She looked free.

"These are perfect," Brent said, leaning over to look at my phone. "You look so beautiful."

An idea formed in my champagne-clouded mind. I should send one to Simon.

Brent pulled back slightly. "What? Why would you do that?"

"He needs to see what he's missing. He needs to know that other men find me attractive, that I'm not just going to sit at home being ignored forever."

"Ovidia, that seems like a bad idea."

"No, it's perfect." I was already selecting the most provocative photo, the one where Brent's hand was clearly on my waist, where we looked like lovers caught in an intimate moment. "He told me to have fun tonight. Well, this is me having fun."

My fingers moved across the keyboard before rational thought could stop me. "Feeling appreciated tonight." "Some men know how to treat a woman right." I hit send at 11:43 p.m. The message showed as delivered immediately. Then, almost instantly, those three dots appeared indicating Simon was typing.

"He's responding," I told Brent, feeling a surge of satisfaction. Finally, a reaction. The dots disappeared and reappeared several times. Simon was clearly struggling with what to say, probably shocked by the evidence of his wife's evening activities. Brent looked uncomfortable. "Maybe we should"

My phone buzzed. Simon's response appeared on the screen and my blood turned to ice water. "I'm done. Don't come back tonight."

That was it. No anger, no jealousy, no desperate pleas. Just seven words that somehow felt more final than any screaming match could have been.

"What did he say?" Brent asked, but his voice seemed to be coming from very far away. I stared at the message, reading it over and over. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Simon was supposed to be furious, supposed to call me demanding explanations, supposed to fight for our marriage. Instead, he sounded like he was giving up entirely.

"He"

"He said he's done," I managed.

Brent shifted away from me slightly. "Done with what?"

"I don't know." But even as I said it, a cold certainty was settling in my stomach. Simon wasn't the type to make empty threats or dramatic gestures. When he said something, he meant it.

"Maybe you should call him," Brent suggested. "Explain that it was just a photo, that nothing really happened."

But something had happened, hadn't it? Maybe we hadn't crossed the final line, but we'd been dancing on the edge of it all night. And the photo made it look like we'd crossed it completely.

I tried calling Simon, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried again with the same result. "He turned off his phone," I said, panic beginning to creep into my voice.

"Look, maybe we should call it tonight," Brent said. "I should get home to Hannah anyway." Hannah, his wife. The woman who trusted him to be faithful, just like Simon had trusted me. The parallel hit me like a physical blow.

"No, wait," I said, grabbing Brent's arm. "I need to think. I need to figure out how to fix this."

But Brent was already standing, suddenly eager to distance himself from the situation he'd helped create. "This is getting complicated, Ovidia. Maybe we moved too fast."

"Too fast? You were the one telling me I deserved better, that my husband was an idiot."

"I know, but sending him that photo, that changes things. That makes it real."

"Real?"

"Yes, that's exactly what it made it. Real and documented and impossible to take back."

I sat alone in the VIP booth as Brent made his excuses and left, promising to talk on Monday at work. The champagne that had made everything seem possible now made me feel sick. The music that had energized me now sounded harsh and overwhelming. I tried calling Simon three more times, each call going directly to voicemail. I sent several text messages, apologies, explanations, pleas for him to answer his phone. All of them showed as delivered but unread.

By 2:00 a.m., I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed to go home, needed to face whatever consequences awaited me. Maybe Simon was just trying to scare me. Maybe by morning, cooler heads would prevail.

The drive home sobered me up quickly. Our suburban neighborhood looked different in the early morning hours, peaceful, settled, full of families sleeping safely in their beds. Families that weren't imploding because of a single reckless photograph. I turned onto our street and immediately noticed something wrong. The porch light was on, which was unusual. Simon always turned it off before bed.

As I pulled into our driveway, my headlights illuminated something that made my heart stop. My large suitcase, sitting on the front porch, along with a smaller overnight bag. I parked and approached the house on unsteady legs. The suitcases were packed with my clothes, toiletries, and personal items. Everything I'd need for an extended stay away from home. Taped to the front door was a manila envelope with my name written in Simon's precise handwriting.

With shaking hands, I tore it open. Inside were several official-looking documents. The first was a petition for divorce. The second was a temporary restraining order. The third was a notice for an emergency hearing scheduled for Monday morning. As I stood there reading by the porch light, I became aware of a car idling at the curb. Looking up, I saw a police cruiser with an officer sitting behind the wheel watching me.

The officer rolled down his window. "Mrs. Multravers?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"I'm Officer Rodriguez. Your husband called for a civil standby while you collected your belongings. He wanted to ensure there were no disturbances tonight."

"Where is my husband?"

"He's not here, ma'am. You'll need to find other accommodations tonight. The restraining order is effective immediately."

I looked back at the house, my house, my home, the place where I'd lived for 7 years. Every window was dark except for the porch light, and suddenly it felt like I was looking at a stranger's house.

"My daughter," I said, "Eliza, is she"

"She's with her father, ma'am, safe and sound." Safe from me. That's what he meant, wasn't it?

I loaded my suitcases into my car with numb hands, acutely aware of Officer Rodriguez watching my every move. As I drove away from my house, my former house, I tried to process what had just happened. In the span of 3 hours, I'd gone from feeling powerful and desired to being served with divorce papers and a restraining order. How had Simon moved so quickly? How had he known exactly what I was going to do?

I drove to my parents' house in a daze, using my emergency key to let myself into their guest room. As I lay in the unfamiliar bed staring at the ceiling, Simon's message echoed in my mind. "I'm done." He'd meant it. And somehow, I suspected this was only the beginning.

The guest room at my parents' house felt like a prison cell when I woke up Saturday morning. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar curtains, and for a moment I forgot where I was. Then the events of the previous night came flooding back, along with a crushing headache that had nothing to do with champagne. I checked my phone immediately. No messages from Simon. No missed calls. Nothing.

But I had 17 notifications from Facebook and Instagram, plus several missed calls from friends who'd apparently seen my social media posts from the night before. In my champagne-fueled confidence, I tagged Brent in several Instagram stories, posted photos of our VIP booth, and shared captions about finally feeling alive. And some people know how to treat a woman right. Looking at them now in the harsh light of morning and sobriety, they looked exactly like what they were. A married woman flaunting an affair.

I heard voices downstairs. My parents were awake. I'd have to face them, have to explain why their daughter was sleeping in their guest room with divorce papers in her purse. My mother, Marjorie Platt, was making coffee when I entered the kitchen. At 59, she still moved with the efficiency of someone who'd raised three children while working full-time as a school secretary. My father, Norman, sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. Retirement from his job as a fire marshal had made him more methodical than ever. And I could feel his analytical gaze taking in my rumpled appearance.

"Honey," Mom said turning from the coffee maker. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

I sat down heavily at the table, the same table where I'd eaten countless childhood breakfasts. "Simon and I had a fight. He He asked me to leave." That wasn't exactly true, but it was simpler than explaining the restraining order.

"A fight about what?" Dad asked, folding his newspaper with precise creases.

"I went out last night with some coworkers. He didn't like it."

Mom poured me a cup of coffee, her face creased with concern. "That doesn't sound like Simon. He's always been so reasonable."

Reasonable. There was that word again. "Maybe too reasonable," I muttered. "Maybe if he'd shown a little passion once in a while, we wouldn't be in this situation."

Dad's eyebrows rose. "What situation, exactly?"

Before I could answer, my phone started ringing. The caller ID showed my friend Jessica's name. "I should take this," I said stepping out onto the back porch.

"Ovidia, oh my god, what happened last night? Your Instagram posts"

"What about them?"

"Girl, you were all over some guy I've never seen before. Please tell me Simon doesn't know about"

I hung up and immediately went to Instagram, deleting the posts from the night before. But as I was doing it, I noticed something troubling. Several of the posts already had screenshots in the comments, friends saying things like, "Saving this before you delete it." and "Evidence for the girls' group chat."

My phone rang again. This time it was my friend Michelle. "Don't answer any more calls," I told myself, but curiosity got the better of me.

"Ovidia, honey, are you okay? I saw your post last night and now they're gone, and people are saying Simon kicked you out."

"Who's saying that?"

"It's all over Facebook. Someone posted that they saw a police car at your house at like 2:00 a.m."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"Check the neighborhood Facebook group. Mrs. Henderson from across the street posted about it this morning."

I hung up and immediately went to our neighborhood's Facebook group. Sure enough, there was a post from our elderly neighbor. "Police activity on Maple Street last night around 2:00 a.m. Hope everyone is safe. Looked like a domestic situation at the Multravers house." The post already had dozens of comments with neighbors speculating about what had happened. Someone had even posted a photo they'd taken from their window showing my car in the driveway with the police cruiser at the curb.

I was deleting my social media presence as fast as I could when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. "This is Attorney Patricia Chen from Chen and Associates. I represent your husband in divorce proceedings. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to discuss service of process and temporary arrangements."

An attorney. Simon had hired an attorney before I'd even come home. I called the number immediately. "Chen and Associates," a receptionist answered. "This is Ovidia Multravers. I got the text about contacting your office."

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Multravers. Attorney Chen is expecting your call. Please hold." The hold music felt like it lasted forever. When Attorney Chen finally came on the line, her voice was professional but not unkind.

"Mrs. Multravers, I'm representing your husband in divorce proceedings. Have you had a chance to review the documents that were served last night?"

"This is all moving very fast," I said. "Can't we slow down and try to work things out?"

"I'm afraid my client has made his position quite clear. The temporary restraining order and custody arrangements are in effect immediately. You'll need to arrange for supervised visitation if you want to see your daughter."

"Supervised visitation? I'm her mother."

"Yes, and the court will take that into consideration. But given the circumstances and your husband's concerns about your current state of mind"

"My state of mind? What did he tell you?"

There was a pause. "Mrs. Multravers, I strongly recommend you retain your own attorney. This case involves some complex evidence that you'll want professional help addressing."

"What evidence?"

"I can't discuss that with you directly. You really need your own representation."

After she hung up, I sat on my parents' back porch feeling like I was in a nightmare. How had one photograph led to divorce papers and supervised visitation? How had Simon moved so quickly? I tried calling him again. This time, instead of going to voicemail, a recorded message played. "This number has been temporarily disconnected." He'd changed his phone number. In less than 12 hours, my husband had filed for divorce, gotten a restraining order, hired an attorney, and changed his phone number.

"Ovidia." Dad's voice came from behind me. "Your mother and I would like to talk to you."

I followed him back inside where Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a very serious expression. "We got a call this morning," Dad said. "From Simon."

My stomach dropped. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to make sure you were safe," Mom said carefully. "He was worried about you driving after drinking. He also said there were some things we should know," Dad added, "about what's been going on in your marriage."

"What kind of things?"

Dad pulled out his phone. "He sent us some screenshots from your social media accounts." He showed me the screen. There were the photos from last night. Me and Brent looking intimate, my captions about feeling appreciated, and finding men who knew how to treat a woman right.

"Honey," Mom said gently, "who is this man?"

"He's just a co-worker. It was innocent."

"These don't look innocent," Dad said, scrolling through more screenshots. "And Simon said there have been other nights like this."

"Simon is trying to make me look bad because he can't handle having a wife who isn't completely under his control."

Dad set down his phone and looked at me with the same expression he'd used when I was 16 and had been caught sneaking out. "Olivia, I've known Simon for 11 years. He's never been controlling. He's never been unreasonable. If he's taking these steps, there's a reason."

"You're taking his side."

"We're not taking sides," Mom said. "We're trying to understand what's happening to our daughter."

"What's happening is that my husband is punishing me for having a social life."

"Is that all it was?" Dad asked quietly. "A social life?"

The question hung in the air. I wanted to say yes, wanted to convince them that Simon was overreacting, that I was the victim here. But looking at the photos on Dad's phone, I couldn't make the words come out.

"I need to go see Eliza," I said instead. "I need to explain to her what's happening."

"The restraining order," Mom began, "doesn't apply to my daughter. I have rights." But even as I said it, I remembered attorney Chen's words about supervised visitation. How had things gotten so bad so quickly?

I spent the rest of the day calling attorneys, trying to find someone who could take my case immediately. But it was Saturday, and most offices were closed. The few lawyers I reached wanted retainers I couldn't afford, and asked questions I wasn't ready to answer. By evening, I was exhausted and scared. I'd lost my home, my husband, and potentially my daughter in less than 24 hours. And the worst part was, I still didn't understand how Simon had been so prepared, so strategic. It was like he'd been planning this for weeks.

As I lay in my childhood bed that night, I tried to figure out my next move. I needed to see Eliza, needed to tell my side of the story. I needed to prove that Simon was overreacting, that one photograph didn't justify destroying our family. What I didn't know was that Simon had been three steps ahead of me all along. What I didn't know was that the photograph was just the final piece of evidence in a case he'd been building for months. And what I definitely didn't know was that by Monday morning, everyone in my life would know exactly what kind of person I really was.

Monday morning arrived with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. I'd barely slept, spending most of the night rehearsing what I'd say to the judge, how I'd explain that Simon was overreacting, that our marriage could still be saved. I'd managed to hire an attorney on Sunday, Robert Walsh, a divorce lawyer who specialized in high-conflict cases. His retainer had drained most of my savings, but he'd assured me that restraining orders based on single incidents rarely held up in court. "Don't worry," he'd said during our phone consultation. "Judges see this kind of thing all the time. Husband gets jealous, files for emergency orders, cooler heads prevail within a few weeks."

I clung to that hope as I dressed for the emergency hearing, choosing a conservative navy suit that screamed responsible mother and wife. The first sign that things weren't going according to plan came when I walked into attorney Walsh's office at 8:00 a.m. and found him sitting behind his desk with a stack of papers that definitely hadn't been there during our Sunday phone call.

"Mrs. Maltrevers," he said, his confident demeanor from yesterday noticeably absent, "we need to talk."

"What's wrong?"

"Simon's attorney sent over their evidence packet this morning." He gestured to the papers. "It's extensive."

I sat down across from his desk, my stomach already churning. "Extensive how?"

Walsh opened the first folder. "Let's start with exhibit A, the photograph you sent to your husband Friday night." He showed me a printed copy of the selfie with Brent. Seeing it on official legal letterhead made it look even more damning than it had on my phone. "Exhibit B," he continued, "is your Instagram account activity for the past 2 months. 37 posts tagged with locations during times you told your husband you were working late or having girls' nights." My mouth went dry.

"How did he get my Instagram data?"

"It's all public, Mrs. Maltrevers, but that's not the concerning part." Walsh flipped to another section. "Exhibit C is your dating app profile."

"My what?" He turned a printed screenshot toward me. There was my face smiling back from a Tinder profile I'd created 6 weeks ago during a particularly lonely evening. The profile was still active, showing my location as within 5 miles of our home.

"I never actually met anyone from that app," I said quickly. "It was just I was just looking."

"The app shows you've been active as recently as Friday afternoon, the same day you went out with your co-worker." Walsh kept flipping through pages. "Exhibit D is your work schedule cross-referenced with your co-worker Brent Soloway's schedule. You've requested the same shift changes 17 times in the past 2 months, always to match his availability."

"We're friends. We like working together."

"Exhibit E," Walsh continued relentlessly, "is a compilation of text messages between you and three different friends discussing what you called your jealousy experiment." The room started spinning. How could he possibly have my text messages?

"According to the filing, you've been backing up your phone to a shared family iCloud account. Everything you've texted, every photo you've taken, every app you've downloaded, it's all been automatically saving to an account your husband has access to." I felt like I was going to be sick.

"That's illegal. That's invasion of privacy."

"Actually, it's not. You're married. It's a shared account that you both have legitimate access to, and you've been backing up voluntarily." Walsh closed the folder and looked at me gravely. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat, professional voice. "'I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth.'" I remembered saying those words. I'd been angry, hurt by Simon's apparent indifference to my friendship with Brent. But hearing them read back in a lawyer's office, they sounded calculating and cruel.

"There's also this one," Walsh continued. "'If he's going to ignore me, I'll find someone who won't. And if he doesn't like it, that's his problem.'" Each quote was like a nail in my coffin. Walsh kept reading. Weeks of recorded conversations where I'd outline my plan to make Simon jealous, where I'd justified my emotional affair as testing our marriage, where I'd painted myself as the victim of his supposed neglect.

"How long has he been recording me?" I asked.

"According to the timestamps, about 6 months."

6 months? Simon had been documenting my behavior, my plans, my infidelity for half a year. While I'd thought I was being clever, manipulating him into a reaction, he'd been quietly building a case against me.

"There's one more thing," Walsh said. "Your co-worker, Brent Soloway, his wife received a copy of all this evidence yesterday morning."

"What?"

"Simon's attorney sent Hannah Soloway the photograph, the Instagram posts, the work schedule coordination, everything. She filed for divorce yesterday afternoon and obtained her own restraining order against both you and her husband."

The room was spinning now. "She can't get a restraining order against me. I've never even met her."

"She can if she believes you've been stalking and harassing her husband, which is how a family court judge might interpret your behavior." Walsh leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Maltrevers, did you tell your friends that you were planning to push Simon until he snaps so you could play the victim?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I had said that to Jessica during a wine-fueled conversation 3 weeks ago when I was frustrated with Simon's lack of jealousy over my increasingly obvious flirtation with Brent.

"That was taken out of context," I whispered.

"There's more." Walsh opened another folder. "Your husband is a 911 dispatcher with specialized training in voice analysis. Apparently, he's been recording your arguments."

"That's definitely illegal."

"Not in this state. Single-party consent means he can record any conversation he's part of. And Mrs. Maltrevers," Walsh pulled out a transcript. "Some of these recordings are very damaging." He read from the transcript in a flat

"Maltrevers be limited to supervised visitation pending a full psychological evaluation."

"That's quite a request," Judge Morrison said. "What evidence do you have to support such extreme measures?"

What followed was the most humiliating hour of my life. Attorney Chen methodically presented every piece of evidence Simon had collected, the recordings, the photographs, the text messages, the witness statements. She played audio clips of me planning my jealousy experiment, discussing how to push Simon until he snaps, and telling Eliza that Daddy didn't appreciate Mommy.

When she played the recording of me saying, "I'll make him think I'm having an affair, and when he gets jealous and controlling, I'll have grounds for divorce and take him for everything he's worth," I saw Judge Morrison's expression harden.

Attorney Walsh tried to mount a defense, arguing that I was just a frustrated wife who'd made some poor choices, that the recordings were taken out of context, that Simon was being vindictive. But every argument he made was met with more evidence. When he claimed I was a devoted mother, Attorney Chen produced recordings of me telling Eliza that her father didn't love us enough. When he argued that my relationship with Brent was just friendship, she showed the nightclub photograph and Brent's sworn statement detailing my pursuit of him.

The final blow came when Judge Morrison asked to hear directly from the court-appointed child advocate who'd interviewed Eliza.

"Your Honor," the advocate said, "the child is clearly distressed by the conflict between her parents. She's been placed in the middle of adult issues and has been asked to keep secrets that are inappropriate for a child her age. She expressed fear that her mother would be angry if she told the truth about some of the conversations they've had."

"What kind of conversations?" Judge Morrison asked.

"The child reported that her mother has been asking her to notice when her father seems mean or unfair and has been told that if her parents divorce, it will be because her father gave up on the family."

I wanted to scream that it wasn't like that, that I was just trying to help Eliza understand why Mommy was sad sometimes. But looking at it through the court's eyes, I could see how it looked like manipulation and alienation.

Judge Morrison reviewed her notes for several long minutes before speaking. "Mrs. Maltrevers, I've been on this bench for 15 years and I've seen a lot of cases involving infidelity and marital breakdown. What makes this case unusual is the level of premeditation and manipulation documented here."

She looked directly at me. "The evidence suggests that you systematically planned to create a situation that would either force your husband into a jealous reaction you could use against him or provide you with grounds for a favorable divorce. You involved your minor child in adult conflicts. You pursued a relationship with a married co-worker while planning to use that relationship as a weapon against your husband, and you documented your own manipulative behavior in text messages and social media posts."

My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone in the courtroom could hear it.

"The temporary restraining order will remain in place," Judge Morrison continued. "Mr. Maltrevers is awarded temporary full custody of the minor child. Mrs. Maltrevers will be permitted supervised visitation for 2 hours every other weekend pending completion of a psychological evaluation and parenting classes."

The gavel came down with a sound like a gunshot. I sat in stunned silence as the courtroom emptied around me. Simon walked past our table without looking at me, his attorney's hand on his shoulder in what looked like congratulation. 2 hours every other weekend. That's what I'd won with my manipulation and scheming, the right to see my own daughter for 4 hours a month and only with a supervisor present.

As Walsh packed up his briefcase, he turned to me with something that might have been sympathy. "Mrs. Maltrevers, I strongly recommend you comply with everything the court ordered. Get the psychological evaluation, take the parenting classes, and for God's sake, stay away from social media and any contact with your husband or his friends and family."

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now you try to rebuild your life," he said. "And you hope that someday your daughter will forgive you for what you've put her through."

As I walked out of the courthouse alone, I realized that Simon hadn't just been three steps ahead of me. He'd been playing chess while I was playing checkers. And now the game was over. I'd lost everything.

3 months later, I sat in the same courthouse, but this time for the final divorce hearing. The psychological evaluation had been completed, the parenting classes attended, and my supervised visits with Eliza had been awkward, heartbreaking affairs where my 9-year-old daughter seemed like a stranger. The woman who looked back at me from the courthouse bathroom mirror was barely recognizable. I'd lost 15 lb. My hair had grown out from its carefully maintained style, and there were lines around my eyes that hadn't been there in October. Living in my parents' guest room while working part-time at a different dental office, the only place that would hire me after the ethics violation, had aged me years in just a few months.

Attorney Walsh had been replaced by a public defender named James Murphy, a tired-looking man in his 50s who'd made it clear that my case was not his priority. The evidence against me was so overwhelming that our strategy had essentially become damage control. "Remember," Murphy said as we walked toward the courtroom, "don't react to anything they present. Don't argue, don't try to explain. Just sit quietly and let me handle any objections."

The courtroom was fuller this time. Simon sat at the plaintiff's table looking healthier than I'd seen him in years. His sister, Claire, was in the gallery along with several people I didn't recognize but assumed were friends or co-workers showing support. On my side of the gallery sat my parents, both looking older and more tired than they had 3 months ago. The stress of their daughter's public humiliation had taken its toll on them, too.

Judge Morrison entered and we all rose. She'd been assigned to our case from the beginning and I could tell from her expression that she remembered every detail of our previous appearances. "This is the final hearing in the matter of Mal Travers versus Mal Travers," she announced. "We're here to determine the final terms of divorce, including property division, spousal support, and permanent custody arrangements."

Simon's attorney, Patricia Chen, stood to present their case. Over the past 3 months, she'd become my nemesis, a woman who seemed to anticipate every move I might make and counter it with devastating efficiency. "Your Honor," Chen began, "since our last hearing, additional evidence has come to light that further demonstrates Mrs. Mal Travers' pattern of deception and manipulation." My heart sank. More evidence?

"First, we've discovered that Mrs. Mal Travers created multiple fake social media accounts to monitor her husband's activities and those of his friends and family members. She used these accounts to gather information that she then used in attempts to manipulate family relationships." Chen handed a thick folder to the judge. "These are screenshots from three different fake Facebook profiles Mrs. Mal Travers created showing her attempts to befriend Mr. Mal Travers' sister, co-workers, and even his attorney's office staff." I had created those accounts, but only because I'd been desperate to know what was happening with Eliza, to understand how Simon was explaining our separation to friends and family. It had seemed like harmless information gathering at the time.

"Second," Chen continued, "Mrs. Mal Travers violated the court's order regarding contact with the minor child's father. She attempted to use their daughter as a conduit for messages, asking the child to tell her father that Mommy is sorry and Mommy wants to come home." That was true, too, but it had seemed so innocent. I just wanted Eliza to know that I loved her father, that I wanted to fix our family.

"Third, Mrs. Mal Travers has continued her pattern of manipulation by attempting to contact Mr. Brent Soloway despite restraining orders from both his wife and this court."

"I never contacted Brent," I whispered to Murphy. But even as I said it, I remembered the letters I'd sent to his new address, the emails I'd sent from different accounts trying to explain my side of the story.

"Your Honor," Chen said, "we have evidence that Mrs. Mal Travers has sent Mr. Soloway 17 letters and 43 emails over the past 3 months despite being explicitly ordered to have no contact with him." Judge Morrison looked at me with barely concealed disgust. "Mrs. Mal Travers, is this true?"

Murphy nudged me to stand. "Your Honor, my client was attempting to clarify misunderstandings."

"It's a yes or no question, counselor. Did your client violate the court's no contact order?" Murphy's shoulders sagged. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Furthermore," Chen continued, "Mrs. Mal Travers has been posting on social media under her real name, violating the spirit, if not the letter, of previous orders. These posts paint her as a victim of an abusive husband and corrupt legal system." Chen handed over more evidence, screenshots of Facebook posts I'd made from my parents' house late at night when the loneliness and anger became unbearable. Posts about how the family court system was biased against mothers, how men could destroy women's lives with false accusations, how I was fighting for other women who might face similar situations.

"Your Honor," Chen said, "Mrs. Mal Travers has shown a complete inability to accept responsibility for her actions or to comply with court orders. She continues to present herself as a victim while engaging in the same manipulative behaviors that brought us here in the first place."

When it was Murphy's turn to present our case, he did his best with what little he had to work with. He talked about my love for Eliza, my previously clean record, the stress I'd been under that had led to poor decision-making. But every point he made was systematically demolished by the evidence Chen had compiled. When he argued that I deserved joint custody because I was Eliza's mother, Chen presented the child advocate's updated report showing that Eliza had been thriving in her father's sole custody and was anxious before and after our supervised visits. When Murphy argued that I deserved spousal support because I'd been a devoted wife for 11 years, Chen showed the court evidence that I'd been planning to leave Simon for months before the final incident, including research I'd done on divorce attorneys and apartment rentals.

The final blow came when Judge Morrison asked to hear an updated report from Eliza's court-appointed advocate. "Your Honor," the advocate said, "I've continued to meet with the child regularly over the past 3 months. She's doing much better in her father's care. Her grades have improved, she's sleeping better, and she's begun participating in activities again."

"What about her relationship with her mother?"

"The child loves her mother, but she's expressed anxiety about the supervised visits. She says her mother asks her questions about her father and tries to get her to pass along messages. The child feels caught in the middle and has asked if the visits could be less frequent." My own daughter wanted to see me less. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

The advocate reported, "The child says her mother cries during visits and tells her bad people are keeping them apart."

Judge Morrison reviewed evidence for an hour before ruling. "Mrs. Mal Travers, I hope this would be a wake-up call. Instead, you've continued manipulating, violating orders, refusing responsibility. You systematically planned to manipulate your husband, involved your child in adult conflicts, pursued a relationship as part of a scheme for divorce advantage." Her voice hardened. "You've shown no genuine remorse, only anger your plans didn't work. Therefore, Mr. Mal Travers receives full custody. Mrs. Mal Travers receives supervised visitation 2 hours monthly, increased only after intensive counseling and sustained behavioral change. Mrs. Mal Travers forfeited equitable distribution through adultery and manipulation. No spousal support awarded. 2 hours monthly. One home visit. Everything lost. You came into this marriage with a loving husband and daughter. Through deliberate, calculated choices, you lost all of that. This is a textbook example of how manipulation ultimately destroys the manipulator."

The gavel fell. Walking out, I saw Simon helping Eliza into his car. She looked happy, healthy, normal. Finally, it hit me. I hadn't lost because Simon was smarter. I'd lost because I'd been wrong from the beginning. He'd been protecting himself and our daughter from someone willing to destroy her family to win a game that existed only in her head. I'd sent that selfie thinking I was teaching him a lesson. Instead, I'd handed him proof the woman he married no longer existed. Simon had been right about everything. He was done. Out of calm certainty, nothing remained worth saving. And he'd been absolutely right.