He grew quiet.
Then he said,
“I was engaged once.”
“What happened?”
His expression hardened.
“She was terrible.”
He hesitated.
“About two months before the wedding, she asked me for five thousand dollars.”
My attention immediately sharpened.
“For what?”
“She said she owed an old debt. Then the explanation kept changing.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t like talking about her.”
I didn’t push him.
Later that night, Ethan went to shower.
While I waited, I noticed an old manila folder on his desk.
A photograph was sticking halfway out.
I could see only part of a woman’s face.
Dark hair.
One eye.
And a small mole just beneath it.
For a moment, I almost pulled the photograph out.
Then I stopped.
My ex-husband had spent years calling me paranoid whenever I noticed something suspicious.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t become someone who searched through another person’s belongings simply because fear told me to.
So I left it alone.
UNTIL THAT SATURDAY IN MY MOTHER’S KITCHEN.
Five thousand dollars.
Lauren.
That mole.
Suddenly, refusing to investigate the connection felt more foolish than looking into it.
“I need to go somewhere,” I told Mom.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan opened his apartment door wearing an old T-shirt.
“Rachel?”
