I did not sleep. At midnight, I locked myself in the study with the envelopes spread across the desk and called the lender’s emergency line, but a recorded voice said the approval office would not open until eight. Brandon had taken his phone and left the house, and Monica had vanished with the children. Then I found the loan application in the pile. Under authorized contact, he had listed my number with one digit changed, which meant the bank’s verification call would ring a stranger.

At 6:40 that morning, my phone rang from an unknown number. A woman whispered, “Is this Natalie? Please do not hang up. I am supposed to pretend to be you for the bank today, and I need to tell you who hired me.” Behind her, I heard Brandon’s voice, getting closer.