Evidence of Afternoons

The iPhone buzzed on her desk at 4:17 AM—her ex-husband's backup phone, the one he'd forgotten in the divorce. Sarah shouldn't have looked. She shouldn't have powered it on after three years in the drawer. But the baseball stadium photos stopped her cold. Section 214, Row F. The seats she'd bought for his birthday, the ones he'd claimed were too expensive for his corporate salary.

The cat—Milo, who'd chosen David in the split—stared from the photo, orange collar glowing against the concrete. Sarah remembered that afternoon. She'd been at home, nursing a stomach flu while David was supposedly working late. The timestamp said otherwise. October 14th, 7:42 PM. Bottom of the ninth, according to the score visible on the jumbotron.

She kept scrolling.

More photos. Different games. Always the same two seats. Always with Milo wearing that stupid orange collar Sarah had picked out, laughing at how it matched nothing in their apartment. David's arm around someone else—blonde, stylish, nothing like Sarah's实用 sweaters and minimal makeup.

The final photo hit hardest. A screenshot of a text thread David hadn't deleted: "She's starting to ask questions. Maybe we should cool it."

"Funny, she thinks we're just friends going to baseball games."

"The cat knows, though. Animals always know."

Sarah laughed, the sound jagged in the empty apartment. Milo had been sleeping beside her just last week when David dropped him off for a weekend visit—claiming his new apartment didn't allow pets. The orange collar was still there, fraying at the edges.

Her own iPhone buzzed now. A text from David: "Can you keep Milo this weekend? I've got something going on."

Sarah stared at the message, then at the evidence on the forgotten phone. Three years of lies, compressed into digital pixels and baseball scores. The divorce had been civilized, mutual, amicable—or so she'd believed. He'd wanted space to "find himself." She'd spent years wondering what she'd done wrong, whether she'd been too practical, too emotionally distant, too something.

Turned out, she'd just been too trusting.

She typed back: "Sure. Same arrangement?"

Then she opened a new message to her contact at the firm where David worked now. Senior partner, she remembered. They'd met at the Christmas party before everything fell apart. David had introduced them: "This is Marcus. He's been mentoring me on the partnership track."

Sarah attached the photos. All of them.

"Subject: FYI. Thought you should know what your senior associate does with those comp tickets you give him for client entertainment."

The iPhone went dark. Sarah set it on the counter beside the bowl of oranges she'd bought yesterday, suddenly understanding why David had always hated them. Too bright, too cheerful, too much like a life that was supposed to be theirs.

Milo would be here in an hour. She'd need to buy cat food. And maybe, finally, she'd stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Some games end in extra innings. Some end before they really begin.