The thing about unfaithful men is they all follow a pattern.
I watch him from across the hotel bar, nursing my third gin and tonic—though it's actually just tonic and lime. In this lighting, with the cut of my dress and the careful application of makeup that makes me look nothing like Detective Elise Blackwood of the 15th Precinct, I appear to be exactly what he's looking for. A distraction. A secret. A mistake waiting to happen.
David Coleman, 42, investment banker, fifteen years married with two children. His wedding ring catches the light as he signals the bartender, but it won't stay on much longer. Twenty minutes ago, he told his wife he was working late. Standard. Unimaginative. The tell-tale sign of a man who's grown comfortable with deception.
I brush my hair back, meeting his gaze for the third time tonight. He smiles now, emboldened. I return a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
"Is this seat taken?" His cologne arrives before he does—expensive, but applied too liberally. Trying too hard.
"It is now," I reply, my voice pitched slightly higher than my normal register. I've become good at these transformations. Detective Blackwood is direct, professional, and intimidating. Tonight, I'm Vivian: receptive, impressed, and just vulnerable enough.
"David," he offers, extending his hand. I already know this, just as I know where he lives, the pattern of his movements, and how many times he's done this before. The investigation into David Coleman has been thorough. Four weeks of surveillance, cataloging his habits, confirming his indiscretions.
"Vivian," I lie, taking his hand. His touch lingers too long.
"What brings you here, Vivian? Business or pleasure?" The line is delivered with practiced charm.
I lean forward slightly. "Why does it have to be one or the other?"
He laughs, delighted with my response. They always are.
"What do you do for work, David?" I ask, though I already know the answer. It's important to let them talk about themselves. Men like David love nothing more than the sound of their own voice, the recitation of their own importance.
As he launches into a carefully edited version of his career achievements, I think about the crime scene I processed yesterday. A domestic homicide: husband killed wife after discovering her affair. The irony wasn't lost on me. Society has always punished women more harshly for the same sins.
"I'm sorry," David interrupts himself. "I've been talking about myself too much. What about you?"
I offer him my cover story—marketing consultant, in town for a conference, staying at this very hotel. Each detail designed to make this easier, to eliminate complications. Hotel rooms are temporary spaces, perfect for temporary connections. Perfect for other things too.
"Another drink?" he asks, noticing my nearly empty glass.
"I'd prefer to continue this conversation somewhere more private," I suggest, watching his pupils dilate with anticipation. "My room, perhaps?"
His smile widens. "I'd like that."
Of course he would. They always do.
In the elevator, he stands too close. I can feel the heat of him, the eager energy. His wedding ring has disappeared into his pocket. A practiced move.
Room 718 is bland and anonymous. Standard hotel decor, perfectly forgettable. Nothing traceable. Nothing memorable. I've already prepared the space, subtle adjustments invisible to his eager gaze.
"Wine?" I offer, gesturing to the bottle I had delivered earlier.
"Please." He loosens his tie as he looks around the room, assessment shifting to hunger.
I pour two glasses, adding a tasteless, odorless powder to his when my back is turned. A carefully calibrated dose—enough to make him compliant but conscious. I want him aware for what comes next.
"A toast," I say, handing him the glass. "To unexpected encounters."
He drinks deeply, already imagining how this night will end. He's right about the ending, just wrong about the details.
Twenty minutes later, when the drug has taken effect and he's vulnerable on the bed—confused but still conscious—I finally let him see me. The real me. Not Vivian. Not even Detective Blackwood.
I lean close, watching recognition and fear fight through the chemical haze in his eyes.
"Do you know why you're here, David?" My voice has returned to its natural register. Cold. Professional. "Your wife Charlotte doesn't know about Amanda from your office. Or Rebecca from SoulCycle. Or the countless others."
Panic now, struggling against restraints he didn't notice me applying.
"Men like you think you're predators," I whisper, removing the specialized tools from my case. "But you've never met a real predator before."
I press the recorder button, the same brand we use for police interrogations. "State your name and your sins, David. Let's make this official."
His confession comes in broken, slurred fragments. Fear has a way of extracting truth where guilt fails.
"Please," he begs when he finishes. "I have children."
"So did my mother," I reply, the old darkness rising in me. "That didn't stop my father from destroying our family with his betrayals. It didn't stop her from taking her own life when she couldn't bear the humiliation anymore."
I pull on latex gloves with practiced precision. The same motion I perform at crime scenes, though tonight I'm creating one rather than investigating it.
"The medical examiner will determine your death was due to a coronary event during sexual activity with an unknown partner. A tragic but not uncommon end for men in your position." I explain this clinically, the way I might describe evidence to a colleague. "Your wife will know your secrets. Your children will learn who their father really was. The truth has a way of emerging in death."
The fear in his eyes is primal now. Good. They should feel fear. All of them should.
I take a syringe from my case. "This will simulate a heart attack. Painful, but not prolonged. More mercy than you deserve."
As I lean in with the needle, I allow myself to feel it—that moment of dark satisfaction. Justice delivered where the law cannot reach.
"For Charlotte," I whisper. "For my mother. For all of them."
Tomorrow, Detective Elise Blackwood will be called to investigate an apparent natural death at the Westlake Hotel. I will process the scene with my usual efficiency. I will comfort the widow with appropriate professional detachment. I will file reports concluding no suspicion of foul play.
And I will begin searching for the next name on my list.
The hunt never really ends. Not while men like David still exist.
Not while I still breathe.