“This is a sick joke,” he said.

“Who is paying her to do this?”

“Let me see,” I said.

I reached out, my fingers trembling.

“Julian, please. It’s my account.”

He didn’t hand me the phone.

Instead, he turned it so I could read the screen while he held it tightly in his grip.

My eyes scanned the messages.

They were long, desperate blocks of text.

*Clara, if you are reading this, do not delete it.*

*He is telling you I went back to France.*

*He is telling you I took his money and ran.*

*That is what he told the police.*

*But I am Sarah.*

*I was his wife before you.*

My breath stopped in my throat.

Sarah.

I knew that name from the old tax returns.

There was a folder in Julian’s locked filing cabinet upstairs.

It had legal documents from his divorce seven years ago.

He told me she had abandoned him.

He told me she had taken everything and disappeared.

*I didn’t run,* the message read.

*He kept me under the house.*

*There is a room under the detached garage.*