After work, my wife hugged me and froze, pointing at my shirt. “What is this?” I went pale…
After work, my wife hugged me and froze, pointing at my shirt. What is this? I went pale, then saw it, too. 12 days later, my mother watched the video and started screaming. I felt Simone’s hands on my shoulders the second I walked through the door Wednesday evening. Then she went completely still.
Ethan, her voice came out strange, flat. What is this? I turned, confused. What’s what? She stepped back, staring at my shirt like it had betrayed her. Her finger pointed at my collar. There, I looked down. A smudge of something peachy bronze dre across the white fabric near my shoulder. makeup. Foundation maybe. Definitely not Simone’s shade.
She wore barely there neutral tones, nothing this warm. My stomach twisted. I don’t know, I said pulling at the shirt to bed. I have no idea how that got there. Simone’s face had gone completely pale. Her jaw set in that way it did when she was trying not to cry. You don’t know, Simone. I swear.
Don’t, she held up her hand. Just don’t. She walked past me into the bedroom and closed the door. I stood in the hallway, shirt collar still pinched between my fingers, staring at that impossible stain. My mind raced through the day. Morning meeting, lunch at my desk, afternoon calls, coffee break, the elevator, the parking garage.
Nothing. No one had touched me. No one had even stood that close. But the evidence was right there, screaming at me from my own shirt. That night, Simone slept on the couch. I heard her crying around 2:00 in the morning. When I came out to talk to her, she pretended to be asleep. I didn’t sleep at all. 13 years.
We’d been married 13 years together for 16. I’d never even looked at another woman. Not once. Not seriously. But here I was with someone else’s makeup on my collar and no explanation that would make any sense. The next morning she was gone before I woke up. No note, no text. I called her at lunch.
She didn’t pick up. I texted, “Please let me explain, even though I don’t understand it either.” She responded 3 hours later. There’s nothing to explain. I saw it. That was Thursday, Friday. I came home to find her sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open. She’d been crying again. Her eyes were puffy and red. Simone, please.
How long? She asked, not looking up. “How long? What? There’s no one. I promise you. How long have you been lying to me? The words hit like a fist. I’m not lying. I don’t know where that came from. She finally looked at me. Do you think I’m stupid? No. God, no. Then don’t insult me by pretending this is some mystery.
She closed the laptop. I’ve been trying to make sense of this for 2 days, Ethan. Trying to find some explanation that doesn’t destroy everything we’ve built. But I can’t because makeup doesn’t just appear on someone’s shirt. I sat down across from her. My hands were shaking. You’re right. It doesn’t just appear, which means someone put it there.
Oh, so now you’re being framed. Her voice cracked. Is that really the best you can come up with? I don’t know what I’m coming up with. My voice came out louder than I meant. I forced myself to breathe. All I know is that I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t with anyone. I don’t know how that got there, but I swear to you, Simone, I would never. My mom was right.
She stood up. She said I was too trusting that everyone has secrets. I don’t have secrets from you. Then explain the makeup, Ethan. Explain it in a way that makes sense. I couldn’t, and my silence said everything she needed to hear. She grabbed her laptop and left the room. Saturday, she asked me to sleep at a hotel.
I checked into a Holiday in Express off the highway and sat on the edge of the synthetic bedspread, staring at my phone. I’d never felt more helpless in my life. Sunday, I tried to go home. She’d changed the locks. Monday morning, I called in sick to work and drove to our house at dawn. Her car was already gone. I sat in my car in the driveway and cried for the first time since my father passed. My phone buzzed.
A text from Simone. I need space. Please respect that. I texted back, “I will, but I need you to know I love you. Only you always.” She didn’t respond. By Tuesday, I was barely functioning. My boss, Dennis Carile, called me into his office at noon. Hey, he gestured at the chair. You look like hell. I’m fine.
You’re not fine. What’s going on? I told him. Not everything. Just enough. Marriage trouble. Misunderstanding. Evidence I couldn’t explain. Dennis leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. This evidence. Did you check where you were when it supposedly got on your shirt? I’ve been over it a thousand times. Nothing makes sense.
Have you checked your building security cameras? I blinked. I hadn’t even thought of that. We’ve got cameras in every garage and lobby, Dennis continued. If something happened that you don’t remember, there might be footage. I felt a flicker of something. Hope maybe or just desperation. Can you help me access those? I’ll call Lawrence Wade in security. He’s been here 17years.
If there’s footage, he’ll find it. Lawrence Wade looked exactly like someone who’d spent nearly two decades watching security monitors. Tired eyes, permanent coffee stain on his polo shirt, but sharp in a way that made me trust him immediately. Wednesday evening, I said, sitting in his cramped office surrounded by flickering screens. Between 5:15 and 5:30, parking garage level two.
Lawrence’s fingers moved across the keyboard. Let’s see what we’ve got. The footage pulled up in grainy black and white. I watched myself walk to my car, briefcase in hand, checking my phone. Normal, unremarkable. Then someone walked into frame behind me. A woman, mid-30s, dark hair pulled back, wearing business casual. She moved with purpose, closing the distance between us in three quick steps.
I watched myself reach for my car door handle. And in that exact moment, she stumbled. Her hand shot out to catch herself straight onto my shoulder. Her face pressed briefly against my collar. Then she straightened, smiled apologetically at my back, and walked away before I even turned around. The entire interaction lasted maybe 4 seconds. Wait, my voice came out.
Go back, Lawrence rewound the footage. We watched it again in slow motion. The stumble looked real, but something about the way her hand landed, too precise, too deliberate, made my skin crawl. “Do you know her?” Lawrence asked. I stared at the frozen frame of her face. No, I’ve never seen her before in my life.
Want me to run her through the system? See if she works in the building, please. Lawrence’s fingers flew across the keyboard. 3 minutes later, he had a name. Raina Vestri works for Hallstead Consulting on the fourth floor. Been with the company 8 months. The name meant nothing to me. Can you pull up other footage of her? See if she’s been around me before.
Lawrence’s expression darkened. You think this wasn’t an accident? I don’t know what to think anymore, but my wife is leaving me over this, so yeah, I need to know. He nodded slowly. Give me an hour. I went back to my desk and tried to work. Couldn’t focus on anything. Every 5 minutes, I’d check my phone to see if Simone had texted. She hadn’t.
At 3:00, Lawrence called my extension. Hayes, you need to come see this. I practically ran to his office. He’d pulled up multiple footage files arranged chronologically across his screens. I went back 4 weeks. Watch. The first clip showed the building lobby. Morning rush. I walked through the revolving door with a dozen other people.
And there, 20 ft back, half hidden behind a column, Reve phone raised, filming me. Jesus,” I whispered. “It gets worse.” Lawrence clicked to the next clip, my parking garage. I was getting into my car and in the background, barely visible behind a concrete pillar. Raina, again, watching. How many times? 14, Lawrence said quietly.
14 separate incidents over the past month where she’s been within 50 ft of you. Always watching, always staying just out of direct sight. My hands gripped the edge of his desk. Why? That’s a question for the police. He handed me a USB drive. I’ve compiled everything. Times, dates, locations. This is enough for a restraining order, minimum.
possibly stalking charges depending on what else we find. I took the drive with numb fingers. I need to show this to my wife. Show it to a lawyer first, Lawrence said. Document everything. If this woman is targeting you, you want protection before she escalates. I called Simone from the parking garage. She picked up on the fifth ring. What? I have proof.
I said, words tumbling out fast. Security footage. There’s a woman who’s been following me. She’s the one who put that makeup on my shirt. She staged the whole thing. Silence. Simone, please. I’m sending you the video files right now. Just look at them. Ethan. Her voice was tired. I can’t do this. You don’t have to do anything. Just watch the footage.
That’s all I’m asking. And then what? You expect me to just forget everything because you found some convenient explanation? It’s not convenient. It’s the truth. Please, Simone. 5 minutes. Just give me 5 minutes. Another long silence. Then send it. I forwarded everything Lawrence had given me and sat in my car, staring at my phone, waiting.
10 minutes passed. 15 20. Finally, my phone rang. I’m watching it now, Simone said quietly. The lobby footage. Do you see her in the background? I see someone. I don’t know who she is or why she Simone’s voice cut off. Oh my god. What? The garage video. I just watched it. She She deliberately touched you. Ethan, she planned this.
Relief flooded through me so intensely I had to close my eyes. You believe me? I’m watching her film you. I’m watching her hide behind pillars. Yes, I believe you. Her voice shook. Who is this woman? Why is she doing this? I don’t know. Lawrence gave me her name. Revestri. She works in our building.
Have you ever spoken to her? Never. I don’t even recognize her face. Then why? Simone’s breath caught.Ethan, if she went this far to make me think you were cheating. What else is she planning? I hadn’t let myself think that far ahead. Now the question landed like ice in my stomach. I’m coming home. Simone said right now.
Don’t go anywhere alone until I get there. We sat together that night at the kitchen table. The first time we’d been in the same room in days without anger between us. Simone had printed out still frames from the security footage. Raina’s face stared up at us from a dozen different angles. I want to go to the police, Simone said.
This is stalking. I called an attorney first. Fiona Cross. She handles this kind of thing. We have a meeting tomorrow at 9:00. Simone reached across the table and took my hand. I’m sorry for not believing you. You saw evidence. You reacted like anyone would. I should have trusted you more than evidence.
She squeezed my fingers. 13 years, Ethan. I should have known. I squeezed back. You know now. Attorney Fiona Cross had an office downtown that smelled like old books and new leather. She reviewed our documentation with the efficiency of someone who’d seen this before. “This is substantial,” she said, tapping the USB drive. 14 documented incidents.
Clear pattern of surveillance and physical contact that resulted in material planted on your person with intent to deceive. “What can we do?” Simone asked. “File for a restraining order immediately. Report this to the police.” And Fiona leaned forward. “I need you to check your home, your car, your electronics.
If she’s been this systematic about creating evidence of an affair, she may have planted other things.” The ice in my stomach spread. What kind of things? Anything that would corroborate her narrative? Texts, photos, receipts. Women like this don’t just create one piece of evidence and stop. Simone’s hand found mine again under the table.
There’s something else, Fiona continued. I’m going to recommend you contact Dr. Raymond Pierce. He’s a digital forensic specialist. If she’s accessed your phone or computer remotely, he can find the traces. You think she’s hacked me? I think someone who plans this carefully doesn’t leave her success to chance. Better to check now than discover it later in court. Dr.
Raymond Pierce worked out of a small office that looked more like a tech startup than a forensics lab. He was younger than I expected, maybe early 30s, with the kind of nervous energy that came from spending too much time with screens. “Let me see your phone,” he said, barely looking up. “I handed it over.
” He connected it to his laptop with a series of cables and started typing. “This will take about 30 minutes. I’m checking for remote access tools, spyware, anything that shouldn’t be there.” His eyes never left his screen. When’s the last time you updated your security? I don’t remember. That’s what I figured. More typing. Okay, someone’s definitely been in here.
My heart stopped. What? See this? He turned the screen toward me, showing lines of code I couldn’t understand. This is a modified version of legitimate parental monitoring software. It’s been recording your messages, calls, locations, photos, everything, and uploading it to a remote server for the past 6 weeks.
Simone made a small sound beside me. Can you tell who installed it? I asked. Not directly, but I can tell you when. He clicked through several screens. March 22nd, between 9 and 9:15 in the evening. Does that time frame mean anything to you? I looked at Simone. She’d gone white. That was the company mixer, she whispered.
The one you brought me to at your office building. The memory clicked into place. Simone had been tired. Left early. I’d stayed another hour mingling. Set my phone down somewhere. Someone must have. She had access to my phone for 15 minutes, I said. At least, Dr. Pierce nodded. That’s all it takes. She probably came prepared with the software on a USB stick, installed it while you weren’t looking, and covered her tracks.
Pretty sophisticated for a civilian. What else can you find? Simone asked. Where else has she been? Give me your laptop, your car if it has GPS, any smart devices in your home. I’ll sweep everything. The next 6 hours were a masterclass in violation. Dr. Pierce found the spyware on my laptop, my work computer, even the smart thermostat in our house.
Revestri had access to nearly everything. Our conversations, our photos, our locations, our daily routines. She’s been watching you both, Dr. Pierce said, showing us the log files, mostly focusing on Ethan’s communications. But she’s been tracking Simone’s location, too. Every time you left the house, every appointment, every errand, Simone’s face had gone from white to green.
She knew where I was all the time. Yeah. Dr. Pierce’s jaw tightened. This level of surveillance is extensive and illegal. Document everything. The police are going to want this. Detective Patricia Hoskins had the weary competence of someone who’d spent 14 years dealing with the worst of humanbehavior. She sat across from us in an interview room at the precinct, reviewing Dr.
Pierce’s report with an expression that shifted from professional to genuinely disturbed. This is one of the most comprehensive stalking cases I’ve seen,” she said. “The planning, the technical sophistication, the manipulation. This isn’t impulsive behavior. This is calculated. What happens now?” I asked. “I’m issuing a warrant for her arrest.
We’ll bring her in for questioning. Search her property. Seize her devices.” Detective Hoskins looked directly at me. “But I need to warn you. Women like this don’t stop just because they’re caught. They escalate. Has she made any direct contact with you? Threats? Attempts to communicate? No, nothing direct.
That’s what worries me.” She closed the folder. She’s been content to manipulate from the shadows. If we arrest her, she might decide to confront you directly. I want you both to be extremely careful. Vary your roots. Stay in public places. If you see her anywhere, call 911 immediately,” Simone’s hand tightened on my arm.
“There’s one more thing,” Detective Hoskins continued. “We need to notify your employer. This woman works in your building. She has access to you 5 days a week. That’s a liability risk. I’ll call Dennis first thing tomorrow,” I said. “Call him tonight.” Her expression was grim. “We’re executing the warrant tomorrow morning.
You don’t want to be anywhere near that building when she finds out.” Dennis Carile answered his personal cell on the second ring. I gave him the abbreviated version. Surveillance, spyw wear, impending arrest. He was silent for a long moment. Then Raina Vestri. You know her? I know of her. She interviewed for a position on your team about 9 months ago. Didn’t get it.
We hired someone else. My blood went cold. Who did you hire? You recommended him. Marcus. Somebody. That guy from your graduate program. And the pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. She applied for my team. Didn’t get hired. Started working in the building anyway. Jesus. Dennis breathed. This was about you from the start. What do I do? Nothing.
You do absolutely nothing. I’m putting you on administrative leave effective immediately. You don’t come near this building until she’s in custody and we’ve swept for any other threats. I’m informing security, HR, and our legal department tonight. Dennis, this isn’t up for debate. Hayes, you’re a liability risk right now through no fault of your own, and I’m not taking chances.
Stay home. Stay safe. We’ll sort out the mess. Wednesday, 10 days after the makeup stain first appeared, Detective Hoskins called at 6:00 in the morning. We arrested Rain Vestri an hour ago. She said she’s in custody, but there’s something you need to know. What? When we searched her apartment, we found a significant amount of material related to you and your wife.
What kind of material? Over 2,000 printed photographs, most of them taken without your knowledge. Timeline boards tracking your daily routines. Voice recordings of your conversations, transcribed and annotated, and Detective Hoskins paused. a folder labeled evidence package containing fabricated texts, doctorred photos, and a detailed plan for how to systematically destroy your marriage.
I couldn’t breathe. Simone grabbed the phone from my hand. “What was she planning to do?” Simone asked, voice shaking. According to her notes, the makeup on the shirt was just the beginning. She had plans to escalate, planting more evidence, creating situations to make it look like Ethan was having an affair, even setting up a fake hotel rendevous that she would tip you off about.
The detective’s voice was hard. She wanted you to catch him in the act. Except there wouldn’t have been an act, just more staging. Why? Simone whispered. She claims Ethan wronged her. That he took something that was rightfully hers. The job, the career trajectory, the respect. In her mind, destroying his marriage was justice. That’s insane.
Yes, Detective Hoskins agreed it is, which is why she’s being evaluated by a psychiatric professional before we proceed with charges. But either way, she’s not going anywhere. The evidence is overwhelming. Friday afternoon, Detective Hoskins asked us to come to the station. She had something to show us.
We sat in the same interview room as before. This time she had a laptop. We retrieved all the videos from her phone. She said, “Some of them are concerning. I want you to see one in particular. It’s from 12 days ago, the same day as the makeup incident.” She hit play. The video showed Raina in what looked like her apartment. She was talking to the camera, eyes bright with something that looked like excitement.
“Day 47.” She said, “Today’s the day. I’ve perfected the delivery method. The makeup is mixed with adhesive powder so it won’t brush off easily. I’ve timed my approach to coincide with his exact routine. He always checks his phone before unlocking his car. That’s whenI’ll make contact. The video jumped forward.
Now she was in our building’s parking garage holding up her phone to show herself in frame. The timestamp read 5:18 p.m. Target acquired, she whispered to the camera. “Phase one initiating now.” The video ended. “I felt sick.” “There are 37 videos like this,” Detective Hoskins said quietly. Each one documenting a different phase of her plan.
She was going to use the makeup incident as leverage to plant more evidence. She had fake hotel receipts ready. Fabricated text conversations with a burner phone. Even a woman she was going to pay to pose as your mistress for staged photos. Simone made a small broken sound. She was building a case. I said against me, a thorough one.
If we hadn’t caught her, if you hadn’t found that security footage, Detective Hoskins shook her head. She would have succeeded. I need you to see one more thing. The detective continued. She pulled out her phone and showed us a photo. We found this in her apartment. It was in a frame on her nightstand. The photo showed me from maybe 15 years ago, college or just after.
I was laughing arm around someone. My stomach dropped. Is that your mother? Simone whispered. It was an old photo from a family gathering. I barely remembered it being taken. But there I was, young and happy, and Raina had it framed beside her bed. How did she get this? I asked. We’re still piecing that together. But Hayes, there’s something else you should know.
Detective Hoskins leaned forward. Raina Vestri isn’t her real name. She changed it legally 6 years ago. Her birth name was Raina Hollis. The name meant nothing to me. Does that name mean anything to your mother? The detective asked. I I don’t know. I can call her. Please do now.
I dialed my mother’s number with shaking fingers. She answered on the second ring. Ethan, what’s wrong? Mom, do you know anyone named Raina Hollis? The line went dead silent. Mom, where did you hear that name? Her voice had changed completely, sharp, frightened. A woman’s been stalking me. She changed her name from Raina Hollis to Raina Vestri.
Mom, do you know her? Put me on video call right now. I switched to video. My mother’s face appeared on screen, pale and drawn. Show me a picture of her. Detective Hoskins held up a photo from Raina’s arrest. My mother saw it and started screaming, not a startled cry. Pure visceral terror. That’s her. She was crying now, hands shaking. Oh god, that’s her.
Ethan, that’s her. Mom, who is she? When you were in college, 18, maybe 19, there was a girl. She lived near campus. She became obsessed with you, followed you everywhere, broke into your dorm room, stole your things. The memory came back in fragments. A girl from sophomore year, always showing up, always watching. I thought she had a crush.
Eventually, she just stopped. “We got a restraining order,” my mother continued, voice breaking. “Her parents moved her away, got her into therapy. I thought I hoped she’d moved on, but she was fixated on you, Ethan.” The therapist said she had an obsessive attachment disorder. “She believed you belonged together, that you’d realize it eventually.
” “That was 15 years ago,” I said. She never stopped. My mother wiped her eyes. “She never stopped believing it.” Detective Hoskins took the phone. “Mrs. Hayes, this is Detective Patricia Hoskins. I need you to come to the station and give a formal statement. Your son’s case just became significantly more serious. The next week moved in a blur of statements, documentation, and legal proceedings.
The restraining order from 15 years ago was unsealed. Rea’s psychiatric records revealed a history of obsessive ideiation, delusional attachment, and increasingly sophisticated manipulation tactics. Her therapist from college, Dr. Maryanne Fletcher, now retired, gave testimony that Rea had spent years in treatment learning to hide her obsessions rather than overcome them.
She became very good at appearing normal, Dr. Fletcher said in her deposition. She learned what responses people wanted to hear, but the underlying pathology never resolved. She simply got better at concealing it. The evidence against Raina was overwhelming. The surveillance, the spyw wear, the fabricated evidence, the 15-year obsession.
Her public defender tried to argue diminished capacity. Fiona Cross destroyed that argument in under 10 minutes with medical records showing Raina had stopped taking her prescribed medications 2 years ago by choice. The prosecutor added charges: stalking, harassment, wiretapping, computer fraud, and attempted destruction of marriage through fraudulent means, a specific statute I didn’t even know existed.
She’s looking at 8 to 12 years, Fiona told us after the arraignment, possibly more if the judge considers the premeditation and the length of the obsession. The preliminary hearing was held in a courthouse downtown. Simone and I sat in the gallery watching as Raina was led in wearing an orange jumpsuit. She looked smaller than shehad in the security footage diminished.
But when her eyes found mine across the courtroom, they lit up with that same bright unsettling intensity I’d seen in her videos. She smiled. I looked away. The prosecution presented their case methodically. Security footage, spyware evidence, the videos, the photographs, the timeline boards, the fabricated evidence package.
Raina’s attorney tried to object, tried to dismiss, tried to minimize. The judge wasn’t having it. “This represents a clear pattern of obsessive, predatory behavior spanning over 15 years,” Judge Brennan said. Reading from the case summary, “The defendant has demonstrated sophisticated planning, technical capability, and a complete disregard for the victim’s autonomy, privacy, and psychological well-being.
This court finds sufficient evidence to proceed to trial.” Raina didn’t react, just kept staring at me with that smile. The trial lasted 3 weeks. The prosecution called 14 witnesses, Dr. Pierce, Detective Hoskins, Lawrence Wade, Dennis Carlilele, my mother, Dr. Fletcher, and several technical experts who walked the jury through every piece of surveillance equipment, every line of code, every fabricated piece of evidence Rea had created.
The defense tried to paint Rea as mentally ill, not criminally responsible. They brought in their own psychiatrist who diagnosed her with a rottoomania, a delusional belief that another person is in love with you. The prosecution’s rebuttal psychiatrist destroyed that narrative. Erottomania is characterized by a belief that the target reciprocates the affection. Dr.
Carol Weston testified, “Ms. Vestri’s actions demonstrate something different, a belief that she deserves the target’s affection and is willing to destroy his existing relationships to obtain it. This isn’t delusion. This is entitlement. This is revenge.” The jury deliberated for 4 hours. Guilty on all counts.
Sentencing was scheduled for 3 weeks later. Fiona prepared a victim impact statement for me to read. But when I stood in front of the judge, the prepared words felt hollow. I spoke from memory instead. For 10 days, I thought my wife was leaving me. For 10 days, I believed I’d somehow destroyed the only thing in my life that mattered. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight because someone I never met, someone I never wronged, someone I barely remembered decided I belonged to her. I looked at Raina.
She was staring at her hands. She didn’t just stalk me. She tried to erase my entire life, my marriage, my career, my sense of reality, and she almost succeeded. I turned back to the judge. I don’t want revenge. I want protection. Not just for me, for every person she might target next, if she’s ever free to do this again. Judge Brennan nodded slowly.
Miss Vestri, you have been found guilty of multiple felonies involving systematic stalking, privacy violations, and attempted fraud. The evidence presented at trial shows a disturbing pattern of obsessive behavior spanning over 15 years. She paused, consulting her notes. You demonstrated technical sophistication, detailed planning, and complete disregard for your victim’s well-being.
Your actions nearly destroyed a marriage. They caused severe emotional distress. They violated multiple laws designed to protect citizens from exactly this kind of predatory behavior. Another pause. I am sentencing you to 12 years in state prison, followed by 15 years of supervised probation with strict no contact provisions.
You will be prohibited from residing within 50 mi of the victims. You will be required to register as a stalking offender, and you will undergo mandatory psychiatric treatment for the duration of your incarceration and probation. Raina’s face finally cracked. She started crying. Furthermore, Judge Brennan continued, “I am issuing a permanent restraining order prohibiting any form of contact, direct, indirect, or through third parties, with Ethan Hayes or Simone Hayes for the rest of your natural life.” The gavl came down. It
was over. Walking out of that courthouse, Simone’s hand in mine felt like surfacing after being underwater too long. “2 years,” she said quietly. “12 years,” I repeated. “That’s not enough. No, but it’s something.” She stopped walking and turned to face me. I almost lost you. Not to an affair, not to anything real, to someone’s delusion.
But you didn’t. I pulled her close. We figured it out. We survived it. Because of makeup stain, because of glitter that shouldn’t have been there. If that foundation had been one shade different, if we hadn’t noticed, but we did notice, and we fought back. I kissed her forehead. That’s what matters.
