The bank records. The suspicious transactions. The grainy hotel photos. The family necklace that had mysteriously appeared inside Maren’s closet.
All the evidence had pointed directly at her. At least, that’s what I believed.
Maren had stood crying in our foyer. “Rowan, please listen to me,” she begged. “Someone is framing me.”
I refused. I was angry. Humiliated. Too proud to admit I might be wrong.
So I threw her out.
The memory made me sick.
Beside me, Tessa reached into her purse and pulled out a folded twenty-dollar bill. Then she tossed it out the window.
“Here,” she called. “Buy some milk.” The bill fluttered onto the dirt beside Maren’s feet.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Maren glanced down at the money. Slowly, she looked back at me.
And there it was again. That unbearable pity.
As if she wasn’t the one who had lost everything. As if I was.
Without saying a word, she adjusted the babies against her chest, picked up her bag, and continued walking down the road.
I watched until she disappeared around a bend. Then I drove away.
But not home.
For the next two hours, I sat alone in a parking lot outside a diner, staring at nothing.
The twins haunted me. Their hair. Their age. Their faces. The timing.
Every calculation led to the same impossible question: Could they be mine?
