Story code: ST-001372
Part 2: Under the Grill
The hum of the fundraiser continued around me, but the warmth of the afternoon felt suddenly distant. I stood by the granite counter of the outdoor kitchen, the static of the headphones still buzzing in my ear. Marcus’s words repeated in my mind, stripping away the last remnants of my denial. I wasn’t just a partner; I was a liability he was managing.
I looked over at the massive stainless-steel grill station. Over the last month, Marcus had volunteered to clean the grill himself, a chore he had previously avoided for years. He had spent hours out here in the evenings, claiming he needed quiet time to review his speeches, refusing to let the cleaning staff touch the outdoor patio.
My gaze fell to the double cabinet doors beneath the grill burners. I walked over, pretending to search for a clean platter for the caterers, and pulled the metal handle open.
Inside, tucked far in the back behind a spare propane tank and beneath a cardboard box of heavy-duty plastic wrap, was a small, rectangular object wrapped in a grey microfiber cloth. My hands remained steady, though my chest felt tight as I reached in, pulled the bundle out, and unwrapped it.
It was a cheap, black smartphone.
I pressed the power button. The screen illuminated immediately, showing no passcode lock. A messaging app was open on the display. The last incoming text, received only ten minutes ago, glared back at me from a contact labeled only with the letter “J.”
*Is the wife behaving? Don’t let her touch the mic. Can’t wait for next weekend in the city.*
I scrolled up through the conversation thread. The messages stretched back for months, filled with hotel reservations, photos of a woman I didn’t recognize, and explicit exchanges. Marcus had been using the campaign trail as a cover, coordinating trysts while demanding I stand by his side to project the image of a devoted family man. He had even used the campaign card to pay for the weekend rentals.
The pieces fell into place with a sickening click. The sudden late-night meetings, the hidden bank transfers, his desperate insistence that I lie to Evelyn Vance to secure her endorsement. It was never about public service; it was about funding and protecting a double life.
From the patio, the PA system crackled to life. The campaign manager’s voice boomed over the speakers, introducing Marcus to the crowd of donors. Applause and cheers broke out across the lawn.
“And now, please welcome your next mayor, Marcus Miller!”
I looked down at the glowing phone in my hand, then out at the crowd gathering around the patio stage. Marcus walked up the steps, waving, his smile bright and flawless. He stood behind the wooden podium, adjusting his notes, completely unaware of the device I was holding. He caught my eye from across the yard, offering a warm, public nod of encouragement, expecting me to join him on stage. How could I make him face the truth without making a scene in front of the cameras?