After he left, I stood in the kitchen until I heard the garage door close.
Then I took my plate to the sink, dumped the eggs into the trash, and opened my laptop.
Doug’s new email was already there.
Her name is Brooke Kensington.
And underneath that, attached like a blade wrapped in velvet, was a full report.
By the time I finished reading, the house around me looked the same.
White cabinets. Morning light. Bowl of lemons on the island. Baby monitor still in the box.
But I wasn’t the same woman standing in it.
Because now I had a name, a face, a hotel, a pattern, and a necklace he had bought with the kind of confidence only a man certain of his own safety ever has.
What I didn’t know yet was how much more there was to find.
And how ugly men can get when they realize you’re not crying anymore.
Part 3
Sandra Mercer’s office was on the fourteenth floor of a brick building in downtown Stamford, and everything in it looked chosen on purpose.
Not flashy. Not soft either. Dark wood shelves. A slate-gray rug. Clean lines. A glass bowl of peppermints nobody touched. The kind of office that made you think the person behind the desk did not need to raise her voice to ruin your week.