He tried to lie at first. A small, pathetic lie. But the evidence surrounded us like witnesses.
And then he told me.
Job loss. Pride. Shame. Loans. Desperation.
Then the first break-in.
He described it almost calmly. How easy it was. How no one was home. How he convinced himself it was temporary. Just until he recovered.
But easy money doesn’t stay temporary.
It grows teeth.
For two years he watched people’s routines. Studied neighborhoods. Entered homes at night. Took what represented someone’s hard work, memories, security.
And then came home to me.
Kissed my forehead.
Asked about my day.
I felt physically sick.
“You could go to prison,” I whispered.
“I was careful.”
Careful.
As if that made it moral.
“As long as we don’t get caught—”
“We?” I interrupted.
That word cut deeper than anything else.
He had turned me into an accomplice without my knowledge.
The house was in both our names.
If the police traced anything back here, I would be standing beside him.
My career. My reputation. My future. Gone.
In that moment, something inside me hardened.
I wasn’t looking at a desperate husband anymore.
I was looking at a man capable of building a double life and sleeping peacefully next to me.
“How many houses?” I asked.
