His name was Dr. Marcus Hale, a cardiac surgeon, and he looked like a man who wished the floor would open. He admitted he had been seeing Brooke for two years. She had told him her marriage was over and that the SUV was hers to share, so he paid three hundred dollars a month toward the lease and asked to be listed as a driver. Brooke had signed my name, and Doyle, the salesman, notarized it for a hundred dollars. The white sedan in my usual parking spot was Marcus’s. Trevor worked nights at the distribution center and came home after seven, so Marcus parked there before dawn and left before he returned. Brooke needed me away because I came by early on mornings, and I would have seen the sedan.

Trevor had arrived while Marcus was speaking. Brooke’s text had brought him from work, still in his safety vest, and he stood in the doorway hearing every word. He asked Brooke one question: “Did you ever love me, or only the car?” She had no answer. Then he turned to me, and his voice broke. He admitted he had been the one to call the dealership, trying to buy the SUV in his own name so Brooke would never learn that his mother paid for it. He had lied for three years about his credit, too ashamed to say he could not afford his own life.

I asked Preston to void the amendment, strike Marcus’s name, and turn the lease in that afternoon. Preston sent the forged notarization to the company’s compliance office, and Doyle lost his notary license. I did not press charges against Brooke, because I had never wanted revenge, only the truth.

Brooke moved out that month, and Trevor filed for divorce. He rented my spare room, took a second shift, and bought a used hatchback with his own savings. I told him the thirty-eight lease payments, twenty-six thousand dollars in all, were a gift he never had to repay. Every Sunday he eats at my table, and nobody says we’ll see.