“Laura lived there.”
“Yes. Except one transaction was made at 11:14 p.m. on March 12.”
“So?”
“The hotel photographs supposedly placing Laura with another man were timestamped that same evening nearly sixty miles away.”
I stared at the wall.
“She couldn’t have done both.”
“Correct.”
“Unless the photographs were fake.”
“Not fake. Misleading.”
Marcus sent me an enlarged image.
The woman wore Laura’s camel coat.
Her hair was similar.
Her face was almost entirely hidden.
Marcus had located security footage from a gas station near our home.
At 9:51 that same evening, Laura’s car entered our neighborhood.
The photograph supposedly showing her at the hotel had been taken nine minutes earlier.
The timing was impossible.
Someone had worn her coat.
Someone had wanted me to recognize the clothes more than the face.
I whispered one name.
“Serena.”
Marcus said nothing.
I asked, “The necklace?”
“We’re checking.”
At 9:38 p.m., he called again.
“The safe was opened at 1:07 a.m. the night before the necklace was discovered.”
“I was in Atlanta.”
“Yes.”
“Laura?”
“Her access code had already been disabled after your argument.”
I stopped.
“Whose code was used?”
“Master override.”
Only a handful of people had access.
My security director.
Me.
And the temporary administrator I had personally authorized.
Serena.
I lowered my head.
For almost a year, I had believed Laura because I wanted to believe her guilty.
Now every piece of evidence was turning in my hands.
And every road led back to the woman wearing my engagement ring.
My phone lit up.
Serena.
Miss you. Come home soon ❤️
I stared at the message.
Then typed:
Busy night. Love you.
The words made me nauseous.
But Marcus had warned me.
“If she did this, don’t scare her yet. People destroy evidence when they know you’re looking.”
For once in my life, I listened.
Marcus found Laura the next morning.
She was living in an apartment above a laundromat on the south side of the city.
Technically, it wasn’t even her apartment.
A sixty-three-year-old woman named Ruth from a church food pantry rented it and let Laura stay there for whatever she could afford.
Most months, that meant almost nothing.
Laura had worked temporary bookkeeping jobs while pregnant.
After the twins were born, childcare costs made full-time work impossible.
She collected cans and bottles for extra money.
The twins’ names were Mason and Luke.
I read those names twice.
Then a third time.
“Birth certificates?” I asked.
“Father section is blank.”
Something in me collapsed.
There are moments when regret is an emotion.
And there are moments when it becomes physical.
This was the second kind.
I had sons.
Two sons.
While I had been attending charity dinners with Serena, Laura had been waking up every two hours to feed them.
