She told me not to let him see what she was sending. I hung up, forced a smile at Trent, and waited until he looked at the departure board.
Then I opened the photo of his bedside drawer.
The passport was right there — the passport he’d sworn he left at home, sitting in the drawer the whole time.
And beside it was everything I was never meant to find.
Chapter 2: What Was in the Drawer
Spread in that drawer, photographed in my mother’s shaking hand, was the end of my marriage laid out like a filing system.
Div*rce papers. Already drawn up, already signed by Trent, waiting.
Bank documents showing that over the past four months our joint savings — my savings, mostly, from eleven years of work — had been drained in transfers to an account with only his name on it.
A refinance on our house that I had never signed. My signature was on it. I had never signed it. Which meant he’d f*rged it.
