Chapter 4

I stared at those words, my hand frozen over the mouse.

A woman in her forties, driving a white BMW.

A specific face flashed through my mind—Brian’s former direct boss, the vice president of operations at his old firm: Tammy Miller.

I typed back immediately: *Dig into her. Get a clear shot of her face.*

A week later, Vince delivered high-resolution photos taken outside the tea lounge.

It was Tammy, without a doubt.

In the picture, she and Brian sat across from each other by the window, documents spread out between them.

Their expressions were tense and guarded. They didn't look like old friends catching up; they looked like co-conspirators negotiating terms.

I called Rachel right away.

"Rachel, can you pull the financial records regarding Brian's supposed project debts before his accident? Focus entirely on transactions between him and Tammy."

Rachel paused for a few seconds, her tone shifting into lawyerly caution. "Nora, Tammy is the chief operating officer of that construction firm now. If you go after her, you need to understand the stakes."

"I'm not trying to go after her yet. I just want to know who the hell was sitting in that car when it burned three years ago."

The silence on the line stretched out even longer.

"What did you uncover?"

Looking at Tammy’s sharp features on my screen, my voice remained calm. "Nothing yet. That’s why I’m digging."

Another week passed, and Rachel sent over a series of bank transfer screenshots.

They were personal wire transfers between Tammy and Brian, dated from three months before the crash right up to the very afternoon of the accident.

Sent from Tammy's personal account across five separate transactions, the total came out to eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Every memo line simply read: *Project fee.*

Yet every single transfer occurred on a weekend, and not a single dime went through the company’s corporate accounts.

I saved the images into the "202410" folder, then created a new subfolder underneath it.

I named it *Tammy.*

Two weeks later, on a Tuesday, I took half the day off and drove out to the tea lounge.

I parked across the street, positioned right where I had a direct line of sight to their usual window table.

At two-thirty, Tammy arrived first.

She ordered a pot of dark tea and sat alone, sipping it slowly.

Ten minutes later, Brian pushed the glass door open, his cap pulled low, and took the seat opposite her.

They began to talk. Tammy’s gestures grew heated; she tapped her index finger aggressively against the tabletop.

Brian kept his head down, clearly offering one excuse after another.

I snapped a few photos with my telephoto lens, keeping my distance.

They talked for about forty minutes before Tammy abruptly stood up to leave.

She stormed out, her face thunderous, slamming her BMW door shut with a violent bang.

Brian remained inside, staring blankly at the teacup in front of him.

I watched him from across the road.

Divided by an asphalt street, divided by three years of time, divided by a two-million-dollar insurance claim and a stolen identity.

There sat my husband, utterly exhausted, looking like an ordinary middle-aged man drowning under the weight of his own lies.

He had scammed me, scammed the insurance company, scammed the world.

And in doing so, he had turned his own life into a miserable, tangled mess.

I didn't get out of the car. I didn't step foot inside that café.

I turned the key, shifted into gear, and drove home.

Once through the door, I spread every piece of paper across the living room rug.

The insurance policies, the bank statements, the surveillance photos, the death certificate, Vince’s logs, the wire transfers from Tammy.

Every single sheet of paper was another nail for his coffin.

I pulled out a notepad and began writing by hand, word by methodical word.

From the day he bought that excessive policy six years ago, to the fiery wreck three years ago, to the timeline of Chloe’s pregnancy, down to the manufacture date on the baby formula sitting in my mother's pantry.

When I finally put my pen down at two in the morning, three full legal pads were covered in ink.

Then, I called Clara.

"Clara, next Tuesday afternoon, don't take Mom to the park. Take her to the farmers market, and take your time. Buy extra."

"Nora... are you ready?"

"I'm ready."

The following Tuesday at two in the afternoon, I arrived early at Mom's place.

As Clara guided my mother out the door, she gave my shoulder a hard, supportive squeeze.

I parked in the grocery store lot across the street.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I muted my phone and hit audio record.

At three-oh-seven, the gray Passat pulled up like clockwork.

I waited for them to walk upstairs. I waited until the fifth-floor lights flicked on.

Then I got out, walked through the courtyard, and scanned the keycard at the lobby door.

I took the stairs, step by step, measured and unhurried.

Reaching the landing, I slid my key into the lock and turned it.

In the foyer sat two pairs of shoes, with the baby carrier resting near the coat rack.

Chloe was by the coffee table, changing a diaper.

Brian stood by the kitchen counter with his back to me, measuring formula into a baby bottle.

I stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind me.

Chloe looked up first. The diaper slipped right out of her hands, hitting the floor.

Every trace of color drained from her face in an instant.

Hearing the door, Brian turned around, the baby bottle nearly tumbling from his fingers.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I pulled out a dining chair, sat down, and set my handbag on the table.

With deliberate calm, I unzipped it and pulled out three separate documents, laying them out one by one.

The life insurance policy.

The bank wire records.

The certified death certificate.