One eye.
And a small mole just beneath it.
For a moment, I almost pulled the photograph out.
Then I stopped.
My ex-husband had spent years calling me paranoid whenever I noticed something suspicious.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t become someone who searched through another person’s belongings simply because fear told me to.
So I left it alone.
UNTIL THAT SATURDAY IN MY MOTHER’S KITCHEN.
Five thousand dollars.
Lauren.
That mole.
Suddenly, refusing to investigate the connection felt more foolish than looking into it.
“I need to go somewhere,” I told Mom.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan opened his apartment door wearing an old T-shirt.
“Rachel?”
He looked sleepy.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I need to see that photograph.”
His expression shifted.
“What photograph?”
“The woman in the folder.”
He stared at me.
“Your ex.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I know her.”
For several seconds, Ethan said nothing.
Then he walked to the closet, retrieved the folder, and sat beside me.
“You’re sure you want to see it?”
“Yes.”
He opened the folder.
Then he set the photograph face-up on the coffee table.
My stomach dropped.
The woman was younger.
Her hairstyle was different.
Her face looked softer.
