For five years, my husband cleaned our bathroom three times a day and never allowed anyone to touch the drain. Then one day, my forensic-expert friend came out of that bathroom, grabbed my arm with her ice-cold fingers, and whispered, “Take your daughter and call the police.”

I didn't stay at my mother's house that night. I couldn't sit still. The walls felt like they were pressing in on me, suffocating me with unanswered questions.

At 8:30 AM on Friday, I drove to the regional distribution center on the outskirts of the city where Diego had worked as a shift manager for four years. Detective Miller had warned me to stay away from anything connected to Diego, but I couldn't stop myself. I needed to see where he spent his days. I needed to look at the mundane reality of his life before he destroyed mine.

The distribution center was a massive, concrete warehouse surrounded by chain-link fencing and eighteen-wheelers idling in the loading bays.

I walked through the front office doors. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman named Brenda who had attended our company holiday party two years ago, gasped when she saw me.

"Mariana!" Brenda stood up, coming around the desk to take my hands. "Oh, honey... we saw the news. The police were here yesterday with search warrants. Nobody can believe it. Diego was the nicest manager we had!"

"Brenda," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I need to look at his personal locker. The police said I could collect his personal belongings." It was a lie, but my voice was so flat, so drained of emotion, that Brenda didn't question it for a second.

"Of course, sweetie. The police put tape over his office, but his gym locker in the employee breakroom hasn't been touched."

She led me down a long, echoing hallway lined with metal lockers. The breakroom was empty, smelling of stale coffee and burnt toast. Brenda pointed to a locker at the far end labeled D. MORALES - SHIFT B.

"I'll give you some privacy," Brenda murmured, patting my arm before heading back to the lobby.

I stood in front of the locker. The padlock was unlocked, hanging loosely through the latch. I pulled the door open.

Inside, sitting neatly on the narrow shelf, were three spare work shirts, a bottle of hand sanitizer, a pair of steel-toed boots, and a small, green leather-bound ledger.

I picked up the ledger. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.

I opened the cover. The pages were filled with Diego’s neat, precise handwriting—the same handwriting that wrote grocery lists, birthday cards for my mother, and bedtime notes for Sofia.

But these weren't grocery lists.

They were dates, times, and addresses spanning from 2014 to 2023. Next to each address was a set of numbers—measurements, temperatures, and chemical quantities.

I flipped to a page dated October 12, 2017: VCU Campus area. E.V. 5'4", 125 lbs. Securing property on 4th Street. Subfloor prep required: 40 lbs quicklime, 3 gal marine epoxy. Ventilation delta: 12 CFM.

I turned the page to April 4, 2018: Broad Street Pharmacy. M. Vance. Name match verified. Behavioral profile: quiet, structured, works late shifts, low familial interference. Ideal candidate for long-term stabilization.

A gasp escaped my throat. I stumbled backward, slamming my back against the cold metal lockers.

He hadn't fallen in love with me. He had selected me like an appliance. He had studied my schedule, my family background, my psychological vulnerabilities, and integrated himself into my life with the cold, calculated precision of a predator building a camouflage nest.