“You have been under a lot of stress since your husband’s tragic breakdown, Claire,” he said, his tone turning smooth, almost sympathetic. “The police already have the reports from your brief stay in the clinic. If you start showing up at our offices making wild claims about twins and secret marriages, people will think you’ve lost your mind.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pen, clicking it once.

“In fact,” he continued, “Senator Sterling has already arranged a lovely, quiet facility upstate. Very private. Very secure. They specialize in women who suffer from severe delusional episodes.”

“I have the marriage certificate, Julian,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I have his journal.”

“You have a notebook written by a man who was losing his grip on reality,” Julian said. “And as for the certificate, public records can be very easily corrected. A single keystroke in the municipal database, and Claire Donovan was never married to anyone.”

He took another step, his hand reaching for my arm.

“Give me the bag, Claire.”

My eyes darted to the keycard still tucked inside my coat pocket.