After she bandaged me, I sat in my car in the gravel parking lot.

The midday sun beat down on the windshield.

I took out my phone and held it up with a trembling hand.

I took three clear photos of the red, peeling flesh before the bandage went on.

I saved them to a secure, hidden folder.

My phone vibrated in my palm, a sharp buzz that made me flinch.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I tapped the glowing screen.

“Look in Derek’s black leather suitcase,” the message read. “Behind the lining on the left side. He took out a life insurance policy on you last week.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Who is this?” I typed back.

No reply came.

I knew Derek was meeting his sister, Stephanie, for lunch at noon.

Stephanie always demanded his attention, and my money, for her credit card bills.

That gave me an hour.

I drove back to the condo, my chest tight with a rising panic.

I let myself in through the service door.

The apartment was dead silent, smelling faintly of the spilled coffee.

I hurried to our master bedroom closet.

His expensive leather suitcase sat on the top shelf, smelling of heavy cologne.

I pulled it down, my burned shoulder throbbing with a dull ache.

I unzipped the main compartment.

I felt along the black fabric lining inside.

Near the left seam, the stitching had been neatly sliced open.

I reached my fingers inside the dark gap.

My fingertips brushed against thick, crisp paper.

I pulled out a folded document.

It was a life insurance policy under my name for two million dollars.

The signature at the bottom of the page was written in black gel ink.

It looked exactly like my handwriting.

But I had never signed it.

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the paper.