For two weeks, the nightly notification had been a parasite in my peace of mind, a digital alarm ringing in the silence of my bedroom. Every night at exactly 3:17 AM, my wife, Helen, would slip out of bed, move with the surgical precision of a ghost, and vanish into the blackness of our suburban street. At 3:59 AM, like clockwork, she would return, breathing the crisp night air as if she hadn’t just been somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Was she hiding a secret life? Was there someone else? The paranoia was eating me alive, and I was terrified of what I’d find.
