Instead, I parked my old sedan two blocks away from Daniel’s apartment.
At nine o’clock he walked out, wearing a pressed shirt and carrying a briefcase.
He looked comfortable.
Confident.
I followed his car from a distance.
According to him, he worked for an automotive supply company on the edge of the city.
But he didn’t drive there.
He drove to Cherry Creek, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Denver.
My stomach twisted.
He parked in front of a sleek modern building with glass walls and a uniformed doorman.
Daniel walked inside like he belonged there.
Two hours later he came out… with a woman.
She was young and elegant, dressed in designer clothes. They laughed together as if they had known each other forever.
She kissed him.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
That wasn’t a business meeting.
They drove to an expensive restaurant. They drank wine. They looked happy.
Later they visited a real-estate office and left carrying folders.
That night I checked my bank records.
In seven years I had transferred him $280,000.
Yet Lily lived in a small apartment with worn furniture and clothes that looked years old.
Something was very wrong.
For two weeks I quietly watched.