Chapter 2

"Ms. Audrey, the lab results are in. We found traces of Alprazolam in your tea sample."

The technician at the toxicology lab handed me the report.

"It’s a strong sedative. Long-term use causes dependency and severely disrupts deep sleep cycles—or rather, it completely knocks you out so you lose all awareness of your surroundings at night."

I took the report. My hands didn't shake.

Seven years.

He had been drugging my nightly tea with Xanax just so I would sleep like the dead while he made those calls and ran those schemes.

I folded the report, slid it into my bag, and drove to the City Registry Office.

"The commercial lot you inquired about is currently in the final stages of a title transfer," the clerk said, looking at the screen. "The receiving party is a company called 'Vic-Eth Properties'."

Vic-Eth.

Ethan's *Eth*.

Victoria's *Vic*.

He didn't even bother to hide it. He put their names right in the company title.

"Is the signature on the authorization form mine?"

The clerk pulled up the scanned document for me.

The handwriting was almost identical to mine. But the way I wrote the "y" in Audrey always had a tiny, upward flick at the end. I had written it that way since middle school.

This signature didn't have it.

It was forged.

Leaving the registry office, I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to the address listed on the trust document.

Emerald Bay. One of the most exclusive gated communities in the city.

I parked my car across the street. Through the wrought-iron gates, I saw Ethan.

He was wearing casual loungewear, running around the manicured lawn, helping a little boy fly a kite. The boy looked about five or six. The way he ran, his profile—he was the spitting image of Ethan.

A woman walked out of the villa carrying two glasses of lemonade.

She bent down and handed one to Ethan. He took it naturally, his fingers gently brushing against the back of her hand.

And then, I saw what was on her wrist.

A vintage Cartier emerald cuff bracelet.

Deep green, with a tiny, feather-shaped scratch on the gold clasp.

It was my mother's.

The very bracelet Ethan claimed had been lost by the moving company two years ago—the one I had spent two years crying over. My mother’s prized possession.

Now, it was sitting on that woman’s wrist.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

It was an iMessage from Ethan: *[Hey babe, got a late dinner meeting with some investors tonight. Don't wait up for me, get some rest early!]*

I stared at the text on my screen.

Then I looked up at the picture-perfect family laughing on the lawn.

I typed back five words.

*[Okay, babe. Don't work too hard.]*