Sloane was not just painting a room; she was renaming my life.

I pulled out my phone and took a clear photograph of the invoice.

Underneath the invoice, there was a log of dates.

Sloane had entered the penthouse eleven times over the last month while I was at my high-risk pregnancy appointments.

She had used her own keycard.

My thumb hovered over Margaret Crane’s contact name on my screen.

Just then, the phone began to vibrate in my palm.

A message popped up from an unknown number.

It was an image file.

I tapped the screen to open it.

The image file resolved into a high-resolution photograph.

It showed Sloane Vale standing in my master closet.

She was draped in my mother’s vintage camel-hair coat, holding a glass of white wine and smiling directly at the camera.

In the mirrored reflection behind her, Nathan’s hand was visible, holding the phone that took the picture.

My fingers went numb against the cold glass of my screen.

I saved the image to three different cloud folders before my hand could shake enough to drop the device.