“You knew about that?”
“I know more than she thinks.”
That sentence stayed with me long after I locked the bedroom door again.
I hated turning that key.
Every instinct inside me screamed to take Mom out of the house immediately, call the police, confront Abigail, demand explanations.
But my years investigating financial fraud had taught me something deployment later reinforced.
When someone believes they’ve already won, they become careless.
So I needed Abigail comfortable.
Not frightened.
Not suspicious.
Comfortable.
I went downstairs.
My wife was sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine and her laptop open.
She glanced up.
“Everything okay?”
I forced myself to look tired rather than furious.
“She barely recognized me.”
The lie tasted bitter.
Abigail lowered her eyes with practiced sadness.
“I was afraid you’d see it yourself.”
I sat across from her.
“How long?”
She sighed.
“A few months.”
