I went back to Sarah’s apartment and vomited in the sink. The scale of the betrayal was nauseating. It wasn’t just greed; it was malice. He had stripped me of every safety net.
“We have him,” Sarah said, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying light. “Fraud. Forgery. Grand larceny. And since he used the mail and wire transfers, it’s federal. If we catch him, he’s going away for a long time.”
“But we can’t catch him,” I said, slumping onto the couch. “He’s in South America.”
“Is he?” Sarah asked. “Men like Michael don’t go hide in a hut. They need an audience. They need luxury. He didn’t steal 1.2 million dollars to live like a fugitive. He stole it to buy a new life.”
Two days later, the universe handed me the key.
It came in the mail. Michael had been thorough, but he was arrogant. He had forwarded our mail to a PO Box in Connecticut before he left, likely to catch any final checks. But he had forgotten to close the PO Box after a month, and the forwarding order expired, bouncing mail back to Sarah’s address, which I had listed as my temporary forwarding address.
It was a heavy, cream-colored envelope. The paper was thick, textured, expensive. The calligraphy was gold leaf.
I opened it, my hands shaking.
“Together with their families, Olivia Grant and Michael Thompson request the honor of your presence at their marriage.”
Michael Thompson. He was using his middle name.
The date was two weeks away. The location was a historic cathedral in Greenwich, followed by a reception at the wildest, most exclusive country club on the East Coast.
I stared at the name. Olivia Grant.
I grabbed my laptop. I Googled her.
Olivia Grant was twenty-four years old. She was the daughter of a shipping magnate. She was a socialite, an equestrian, and an heiress to a fortune that made my grandfather’s estate look like pocket change.
And there, on her Instagram, was Michael.
He wasn’t in South America. He was in Greenwich. He was wearing a tuxedo. He was holding a glass of champagne. He was smiling that charming, crooked smile that had fooled me four years ago.
The caption read: “Can’t wait to marry my soulmate. The man who saved my heart.”
He had played us both. He had used my money—my son’s money—to ingratiate himself into her world. He had bought the suits, the dinners, the ring, all with the proceeds of his crime against me.
He wasn’t hiding. He was upgrading.
“Sarah,” I called out, my voice deadly calm. “Come here.”
Sarah looked at the invitation. She looked at the Instagram photo. She looked at me.
“You’re not thinking of going,” she said.
I looked at Ethan, sleeping in his playpen. I thought about the cold night in the farmhouse. I thought about the fear. I thought about the moment I realized he wasn’t coming back.
“I’m not just going,” I said. “I’m going to stop it.”
The preparation for war
We didn’t just drive to Greenwich. We prepared for a tactical strike.
I met with the District Attorney in Vermont. When I showed him the evidence—the forged deeds, the hospital logs, the flight records, and the wedding invitation—his demeanor changed from polite interest to aggressive focus.
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