He started the engine, shifted into reverse, and drove out into the rainy Nashville night.

He didn’t turn on his headlights until we were two blocks away from the hotel.

Rain smeared the streetlights of downtown Nashville into long, yellow streaks on the windshield.

Rosie fell asleep against my shoulder, her breathing rhythmic and soft.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking at the back of Nathan’s head.

“A small motel near Radnor Lake,” Nathan said, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “It’s owned by a friend of mine. No registration, no digital footprint.”

“Why is Grant doing this?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the thump of the windshield wipers.

“He’s spent three years building a file on you, Emily,” Nathan said.

He turned the SUV onto a dark, tree-lined road.

“He has bank statements showing you withdrew thousands of dollars from his accounts,” he continued. “Accounts you didn’t even know existed.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I never had access to his money.”

“He opened them in your name using your social security number,” Nathan said. “He also paid a doctor in East Nashville to sign off on monthly psychological evaluations.”