For almost three months, Thursday had become my wife’s favorite day of the week

I didn't move. I stood in the doorway, my hand resting casually on the brass handle, looking down at her with the same detached neutrality I had used in the backyard days earlier.

"You're at your sister's house in Charlotte," I said mildly. "Or so you told me."

"She kicked me out," my wife sobbed, the tears spilling over her eyeliner. "David called her. He told her everything about Miller, about the audit, about... about what happened here. She packed my bags and told me she wouldn't harbor a liar."

"Your sister has good judgment," I observed. "You should listen to her more often."

"Thomas, please!" She took a desperate step forward, reaching out as if to grab my sleeve, but stopped when she saw the absolute coldness in my eyes. "I have nowhere to go. My bank accounts are frozen pending the legal review of the conditional deed rider. I have five dollars in my wallet and my car lease is expiring."

"Those sound like complex logistical problems," I said, my voice completely level. "Fortunately, you have a talent for finding creative solutions. Perhaps Mr. Miller can assist you. Though, judging by his current employment status and revoked certifications, his housing options are likely somewhat limited at the moment."

Her face twisted in sudden anger, the victim routine slipping for a split second to reveal the bitter resentment underneath. "You did this! You planned every single second of it! You sat there watching us, didn't you? That morning, when you drove away at 7:53, you didn't go to work at all, did you?"

"I went to a coffee shop near the interstate," I corrected her calmly. "Then I came back through the neighborhood entrance and parked where my car couldn't be seen."

"Why?" she screamed, her voice cracking in the quiet Raleigh night, loud enough that I could imagine Mrs. Gable’s curtains twitching three houses down. "Why didn't you just confront us? Why play games?"

"Because a confrontation is messy, inefficient, and leaves room for argument," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "An engineering solution is clean, permanent, and relies entirely on the subject's own momentum to complete the process. You wanted excitement on Thursday mornings. I simply ensured the infrastructure supported your desires until the system collapsed under its own weight."

She stared at me, trembling, the horrific realization washing over her that she had never truly understood the man she had lived with for five years. She hadn't been married to an ordinary, predictable office worker; she had been living with someone who approached domestic betrayal with the cold, unyielding logic of a structural stress test.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"No," I said, my hand tightening slightly on the door handle. "I'm just an engineer. And visiting hours are over."