I stared into the darkness.
“And you found ours.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“They said unless there was evidence he had committed a current crime, they couldn't simply arrest someone because I recognized him from photographs.”
She exhaled.
“I tried warning you.”
“I know.”
“I thought you blocked me.”
“I did.”
Another silence.
Then I whispered, “I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.
He makes you doubt everyone except him.”
I understood that sentence too well.
“Jenna, can you come tomorrow?”
“Where?”
I told her.
She was silent for several seconds.
“What are you planning?”
“A wedding.”
“You're still marrying him?”
“No.”
For the first time, my voice carried no fear.
“I’m giving him the ceremony he deserves.”
I slept for forty-three minutes.
At 5:10 a.m., Danielle arrived carrying coffee and looking like she'd already committed three felonies on my behalf.
She dropped her handbag on the kitchen island.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Drink.”
She shoved coffee toward me.
“Harry took the girls to my sister's?”
“Not yet.”
Footsteps sounded overhead.
Danielle lowered her voice.
“Are you sure you don't want them at the ceremony?”
“Absolutely.”
“Oliver might become aggressive.”
“Exactly.”
At 5:30, David arrived.
He brought a laptop, two folders, and an expression that made my stomach tighten.
“What?”
He set down the folders.
“I found Jenna.”
“She called me.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I also found another woman.”
He slid a photograph toward me.
A brunette around fifty stood beside Oliver at a charity gala.
Except Oliver had longer hair.
And the name beneath the archived photograph read:
Anthony Mercer and fiancée Rebecca Hale.
“Rebecca lost her retirement account,” David said.
“And almost lost her home.”
“Almost?”
“Her adult daughter caught the transfer before it cleared.”
I stared at Oliver's smiling face.
“Did she report him?”
“Yes.
He disappeared.”
“Sarah?”
David opened another page.
A woman with dark red hair stood near him.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Sarah.
“That was his aunt,” David said.
“What name?”
“Margaret Mercer.”
I whispered, “Jesus.”
David sat opposite me.
“Sharon, this isn't just an opportunistic fiancé.”
“I know.”
“No.
You don't.”
He opened his laptop.
“At 3:40 this morning, I checked the county recorder because of what you told me about your home.”
His expression changed.
“Someone attempted to submit a quitclaim deed three days ago.”
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my lips.
“For my house?”
“Yes.”
“Transferring it to whom?”
“A trust.”
“What trust?”
“The S.M.
Family Residential Trust.”
My initials.
A name meant to look harmless.
“Who controls it?”
“The submitted copy is incomplete.
The recorder rejected it for a notarization defect.”
My skin prickled.
“But the signature?”
