“Now.”

He got out.

I drove home with my engagement ring rattling in the cup holder every time I turned.

Seven Months of Missing Money

I slept for maybe forty minutes.

At six the next morning, I made coffee and opened our wedding savings account.

I wasn’t looking for evidence.

I wanted to know how much money was mine before I locked Brandon out of everything.

The account should have held a little over $42,000.

It didn’t.

I started scrolling.

For the first year, Brandon and I had both deposited money regularly.

Then his deposits became smaller.

Seven months earlier, they stopped completely.

I hadn’t noticed because mine had increased.

Every time he told me he was short, I picked up another driving shift.

Then I saw the withdrawals.

$1,800.

$2,400.

$3,100.

Transfers I had never made.

I called the bank as soon as it opened.

By nine, I was sitting across from a woman named Denise while she turned her monitor toward me.

“Do you recognize these?”

I shook my head.

There were hotel charges, a jewelry purchase and several transfers to an account in Indianapolis.

Denise tapped the screen.

“If you didn’t authorize them, we need to restrict access today.”

“Do it.”

That was the first decision I’d made in five years without wondering what Brandon would think.

I froze the joint accounts, changed my online banking passwords and started fraud disputes on the transactions I didn’t recognize.

Then I called my apartment manager.

By noon, the lock had been changed.

I packed Brandon’s clothes, shoes, golf clubs and boxes from the hall closet. I didn’t destroy anything. I didn’t throw anything into the parking lot.

I took it downstairs and asked security to hold it.

The last thing I found was our engagement photograph.

Brandon had his forehead against mine. I was holding a little wooden sign with our wedding date painted across it.

DECEMBER 12.

I slid the photograph under the handle of one of his bags.

Around four, the front desk called.

“There’s a woman here with Mr. Mercer. She says he needs some documents.”

I went downstairs.

Brandon stood near the security desk.

Hannah was beside him.

She looked exhausted.

Brandon stepped toward me.

“Can we talk privately?”

“No.”

Hannah’s eyes moved to the pile of bags.

Then she saw the photograph.

She picked it up.

Brandon reached for it.

“Hannah, give me that.”

She stepped backward.

Her eyes stayed on the date.

“December twelfth?”

He said nothing.

She looked at me.

“This December?”

“Yes.”

“You were still getting married?”

“Until last night.”

Hannah looked at Brandon.

“You told me she hadn’t been in your life for years.”

His face went pale.

I folded my arms.

“We ate breakfast together yesterday.”

Hannah stared at him for several seconds.

Then she put the photograph back on the bag.

“I want to go home.”

Brandon followed her toward the doors.

He turned once.

I didn’t say anything.

The elevator opened behind me, and I went upstairs alone.

The next evening, an Indianapolis number called.

It was Hannah.

“I found more things.”

She sounded different.

Not angry.

Careful.

“What things?”

“Pictures. Restaurant receipts. Emails about your wedding.”

I sat down at my kitchen table.

“Okay.”

There was a long silence.

Then she said:

“My parents gave Brandon fifty thousand dollars.”

I gripped the edge of the table.

“For what?”

“The baby. Medical bills, time off work, everything. He said he put it into a separate account.”

“Did he?”

“The account is empty.”

Neither of us spoke.

Finally Hannah asked:

“How much did he take from you?”

I looked at the transaction printouts beside my laptop.

“I don’t know yet.”

That answer bothered me more than any number could have.

I had spent five years believing I knew exactly who I shared a bed, a lease and a future with.

I didn’t even know what he had done with my name.

I Didn’t Get on the Plane

Two days later, I booked a flight to San Diego.

I told myself I needed distance.

I packed one suitcase, called off work and took a rideshare to the airport because I couldn’t stand sitting behind my own steering wheel.

At the gate, my phone rang.

Hannah.

“Claire, did Brandon ever have access to your Social Security number?”

I stood up.

“Why?”

“I found loan paperwork.”

I walked away from the gate.

“What paperwork?”

“Your address is on it.”

I didn’t board the plane.

Instead, I went home.

The next morning Hannah drove to Columbus, and we went to the police together.

We brought what we had: account statements, loan notices, transfer records and copies of messages.

The detective didn’t need a complicated explanation.

He kept coming back to the same questions.