Updated Oct 30, 2025 • ~9 min read
Keegan Porter’s office was in a strip mall between a Thai restaurant and a tax preparation service. Not glamorous, but the online reviews had been stellar: “Thorough, discreet, got me everything I needed for court.”
Samantha sat across from him at 9 AM sharp, a manila folder thick with printed evidence on the table between them.
Keegan was younger than she’d expected—mid-thirties, with sharp eyes and an easy demeanor that probably put nervous clients at ease. He wore jeans and a button-down, casual but professional.
“Coffee?” he offered, gesturing to a Keurig in the corner.
“No, thank you. I’d like to get started.”
He smiled slightly. “Straight to business. I respect that.” He pulled out a legal pad. “Walk me through everything.”
So she did. The timeline of the affair. The therapy sessions where Dr. Leigh had focused exclusively on Jared. The necklace. The texts at 2 AM. The hotel charges. The phone call to the office on Saturday. The kiss in the parking lot.
Keegan took notes without interrupting, his expression neutral but attentive. When she finished, he sat back and studied her.
“You’ve done a lot of legwork already. Most people come to me with just suspicions.”
“I don’t deal in suspicions anymore.” Samantha pushed the folder toward him. “Everything’s documented. I just need you to fill in the gaps. Get proof that will hold up in court and with the licensing board.”
He opened the folder, flipping through screenshots and credit card statements and photos. When he reached the pictures from Tuesday—Jared and Dr. Leigh kissing—he paused.
“These are good. Clear faces, timestamp, public location.” He looked up. “You took these yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Brave. Most people can’t handle watching it happen live.”
Samantha’s jaw tightened. “I handled it.”
“I can see that.” He closed the folder. “Here’s what I can do. I’ll conduct surveillance for the next two weeks. Follow your husband, document his meetings with Dr. Westmore, get photos and video evidence. I’ll also look into Dr. Westmore’s background—see if there are other complaints or patterns we can use.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand retainer, then hourly rate after that. Full surveillance usually runs four to six thousand total, depending on how active they are.”
Six thousand dollars. Nearly half of what Samantha had in her personal savings account.
“Done,” she said without hesitation. “When can you start?”
“Today.” Keegan pulled out a contract. “I’ll need signatures, payment information, and then I’m on it. One question though—what’s your end goal here? Just divorce, or are you going after the therapist too?”
“Both.” Samantha’s voice was ice. “I want my divorce, and I want her license revoked. I want everyone to know exactly what she did.”
Keegan nodded slowly. “Then you’ll need to file a complaint with the Oregon Board of Licensed Professional Counselors and Therapists. I can help with that—give you documentation formatted properly for their investigation process.”
“What kind of evidence do they need?”
“Proof of the relationship, proof that it started during the therapeutic relationship, any evidence of boundary violations during sessions. The more you have, the stronger the case.” He tapped the folder. “What you’ve already got is a good start, but first-hand accounts help. Did anyone else witness inappropriate behavior during your sessions?”
Samantha thought about Tessa, the receptionist. The awkwardness in her voice on Saturday when she’d tried to cover for Dr. Leigh. “The office receptionist might be willing to talk. She seemed uncomfortable when I called during one of their meetings.”
“Get me her name. I’ll see what I can find out.” Keegan slid the contract across the desk. “One more thing—do you have somewhere to keep all this evidence? Somewhere your husband won’t find it?”
“Cloud storage with password protection.”
“Good. But get a physical backup too. Flash drive, external hard drive, something. Keep it somewhere safe. If this goes to court, you’ll need everything preserved exactly as is.”
Samantha signed the contract and wrote the check, her hand steady. Six thousand dollars to destroy her marriage officially. Seemed like a bargain.
By Wednesday afternoon, Samantha sat in a different office—this time with Wesley Tate at a downtown law firm that occupied three floors of a glass building.
“I’ve reviewed everything you sent,” Wesley said, gesturing to his own folder of evidence. “You have an extremely strong case for divorce based on adultery. Oregon is a no-fault state, but proving fault can impact asset division and spousal support.”
“What does that mean for me?”
“It means you’re in an excellent position. You can likely keep the house, get favorable terms on asset division, and potentially receive spousal support depending on income disparity.” He leaned forward. “But there’s something else we should discuss. The therapist angle.”
“What about it?”
“Dr. Westmore’s professional liability insurance will cover malpractice claims. If you can prove she engaged in an inappropriate relationship with your husband while treating you both, you may be able to sue for damages—emotional distress, cost of future therapy to repair the harm done, that kind of thing.”
Samantha’s pulse quickened. “How much are we talking?”
“Depends on the case and the insurance limits. But settlements in these situations can range from fifty thousand to several hundred thousand. Therapists who engage in this kind of conduct are massive liability risks. Insurance companies usually push for settlement rather than going to trial.”
Several hundred thousand dollars. The thought made her dizzy.
“What do I need to do?”
“First, file the licensing board complaint. That creates an official record. Then, once we have the PI’s full report, we file a malpractice lawsuit. The two processes will run parallel—the board investigates her license while we pursue damages in civil court.” Wesley pulled out another document. “In the meantime, I need you to open a separate bank account. Transfer half of your joint savings there. Legally, it’s your money, but we want to protect it before your husband realizes you’re planning to leave.”
“He doesn’t check the accounts. I handle all the finances.”
“Even better. Move the money quietly, document everything, and make sure he can’t access that new account.” Wesley slid the document across. “This is a retainer agreement for my services. I’m estimating twenty thousand for the divorce proceedings, but that includes the malpractice lawsuit preparation.”
Twenty thousand plus six thousand for the PI. Twenty-six thousand dollars to end her marriage and destroy the people who’d destroyed it first.
Samantha signed without hesitation.
That evening, while Jared was at another “late work meeting,” Samantha sat at the kitchen table with her laptop and methodically dismantled their joint financial life.
She opened a new checking account at a different bank. Transferred exactly half of their joint savings—thirty-seven thousand dollars. Not enough to raise immediate red flags, but enough to give her security.
She compiled a spreadsheet of every asset they owned together. The house—purchased three years ago, still had a mortgage but had appreciated significantly. Jared’s 401k. Her smaller retirement account. The cars. Furniture. Even the stupid expensive espresso machine Jared had insisted on buying last Christmas.
Everything documented. Everything valued. Everything ready to be divided.
Then she opened a new document and started typing the most important record of all: a comprehensive timeline of the affair.
August 15: First couples therapy session with Dr. Leigh Westmore.
August 18: Jared comes home late, distracted by phone. First time he cancels date night homework.
August 22: Second therapy session. Dr. Leigh suggests individual sessions with Jared.
August 27: First hotel charge at Morrison Hotel, $247.83.
September 3: Find necklace in Jared’s car. Same necklace Dr. Leigh wore at coffee shop.
She went through her evidence folder, cross-referencing photos and screenshots with her calendar, building a narrative that was airtight and irrefutable. Every suspicious behavior. Every lie. Every hotel charge and secret meeting.
By the time she finished, it was after midnight. She had a document that read like a legal brief—clinical, detailed, devastating.
She saved three copies. One to her cloud storage. One to a flash drive she’d bought that afternoon. One to an external hard drive she kept in a locked drawer.
Her phone buzzed. Keegan.
Keegan: Got some good footage today. Your husband met Dr. Westmore at a restaurant downtown. Very cozy. Sending files now.
Samantha opened her encrypted email and downloaded the videos. There was Jared, sitting across from Dr. Leigh at an intimate table in the back corner of an upscale Italian place. Holding hands across the table. Leaning in to kiss her between courses. Acting like a couple on a date because that’s exactly what they were.
She saved the videos to all three storage locations. Added notes to her timeline.
October 23: Jared and Dr. Leigh dinner at Bellini’s Restaurant. Physical contact, kissing, behavior consistent with romantic relationship.
The garage door opened. Jared, finally home.
Samantha closed her laptop and stood, stretching like she’d been reading instead of documenting his affair. By the time he walked through the door, she was at the sink, rinsing out a wine glass, the picture of normalcy.
“Hey,” he said, setting down his keys. He looked tired, but there was something else in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or satisfaction from another evening spent with Dr. Leigh.
“How was work?” Samantha asked, her voice neutral.
“Long. Henderson account is killing me.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily. “I’m exhausted. Heading to bed.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
She watched him disappear toward the guest room and felt nothing. No sadness. No anger. Just cold calculation.
In the morning, she had an appointment with the Oregon Board of Licensed Professional Counselors and Therapists. She’d called ahead, explained the situation in general terms, been told to bring all evidence for a preliminary review.
By Friday, Keegan would have another week of surveillance footage.
By next Monday, Wesley would have drafted the licensing board complaint for her signature.
By the end of the month, she’d have filed for divorce.
And by the end of this nightmare, Dr. Leigh Westmore would lose everything she’d built her career on, and Jared would understand exactly what it cost to betray someone who’d loved him.
Samantha went to bed in her empty room and slept better than she had in months.
Not because she was happy. But because she finally had a plan, and that plan was in motion, and nothing Jared or Dr. Leigh did now could stop what was coming.
They’d spent months building their affair in secret.
She’d spent weeks building their destruction in silence.
And she was just getting started.
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