She Hugged My Husband at Our Anniversary Dinner and Called Him Her Boyfriend—Then He Went Pale

The drive to Pinecrest Assisted Living took twenty-two minutes. I did it in fourteen, the tires of my Volvo hydroplaning on the slick Seattle streets. Nadine was pacing outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette—a habit she had quit five years ago.

"Where is he?" I demanded, leaping out of the car before the engine had fully died.

Nadine threw the cigarette down, her face blotchy and red. "I don't know! I came to bring him his specialized arthritis medication. The front desk said he was discharged at 7:00 a.m. against medical advice."

"By who?" I shouted, running through the sliding glass doors.

"The front desk nurse is pulling the security footage now," Nadine said, keeping pace with me. "Sylvia, his room is empty. His clothes, his books, the photographs. It's like he never lived there."

We reached the front desk. A nervous nursing supervisor named Brenda was clicking frantically on a computer screen.

"Brenda, where is my father?" I demanded.

"Mrs. Ashby, I'm so sorry, I wasn't on shift," Brenda stammered. "The morning nurse said a family member authorized the transfer to a specialized facility in Portland. They had all the legal paperwork. The medical power of attorney."

"I hold his medical power of attorney!" I slammed my hand on the desk. "Me! Not a facility in Portland, not anyone else. Show me the paperwork."

Brenda turned the monitor.

There it was. A pristine, legally binding transfer of Medical Power of Attorney.

Signed by Arthur Mercer.

Notarized by Lacy Monroe.

Transferred to Kent Ashby.

"Kent," Nadine whispered, staring at the screen. "Why would Kent take Dad?"

I backed away from the desk, the pieces clicking into a horrifying picture. "Because Dad is the only one who can prove it."

"Prove what?" Nadine asked.

"The violin," I said, my mind racing. I grabbed Nadine's arm and pulled her away from the desk. "Kent has an appraisal for a 1742 Guarneri violin with my forged signature. He's auctioning it tomorrow night in Bellevue. But Nadine... there is no Guarneri. Dad's entire life was tracking the provenance of golden-age strings in the Pacific Northwest. If a Guarneri surfaced, Dad would know. And if it's a fake..."

"Dad would spot it instantly," Nadine finished, her eyes widening. "Even with his dementia, his eyes are perfect. He can identify varnish patterns from across a room."

"Kent is hiding him," I said, panic rising in my throat. "He kidnapped our father so Dad couldn't accidentally ruin the auction."

"But how did Kent get him out?" Nadine asked, exasperated. "Dad can barely walk to the bathroom on his bad days!"

"Let's look at his room," I said.

We ran down the hallway to Room 114. The door was ajar.

Just as Nadine said, it was stripped bare. The bed was made. The closet was empty. Even the framed photo of our mother was gone from the nightstand.

But as my restorer’s eyes scanned the room, looking for what didn't belong, I stopped.

"He was rushed," I murmured.

"What?"

I walked over to the small, heavily varnished oak dresser in the corner. "When you restore an instrument, you look for the dust patterns. The places the rag didn't reach. Look."

I pointed to the top of the dresser. There was a clean rectangle in the thin layer of dust where a heavy object usually sat. But off to the side, mostly hidden by the shadow of the television, was a small, scuffed leather box.

"Dad's grooming kit," Nadine said. "He never leaves without it."

I picked up the box and popped the brass latch. Inside were his silver shaving razor, a comb, and a worn leather strap. But wedged beneath the velvet lining at the bottom was something hard.

I peeled back the velvet.

It was a heavy, gold pocket watch.

I gasped. "Grandpa's watch. I thought Dad lost this five years ago."

"He did," Nadine said, frowning. "He tore the house apart looking for it before he moved in here."

I turned the watch over in my hand. The gold was cold. I pressed the small button on the crown. The front casing popped open.

Tucked inside the cover, folded into a tiny, meticulous square, was a piece of yellowed paper.

I carefully unfolded it. It was a pawn shop receipt from a place called Iron & Gold Brokers in downtown Seattle. The date was exactly five years ago.

The item pawned: Antique Gold Pocket Watch.

The name of the pawner: Kent Ashby.

"He didn't lose it," I whispered, the betrayal making me nauseous. "Kent stole it. He pawned our grandfather's watch."

"Why would he do that?" Nadine asked. "Kent had a huge salary even back then."

"Did he?" I asked, looking at the receipt. "Look at the amount he pawned it for. Ten thousand dollars. Nadine... what happened exactly five years ago?"

Nadine went completely still. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking sickly and fragile.

"Mom's surgery," she whispered.

Five years ago, our mother needed an experimental heart valve replacement. Insurance wouldn't cover it. It was out of pocket. Ten thousand dollars. We didn't have it.

Kent had swooped in. He told us he cashed out an old stock portfolio to save her life. We had treated him like a savior. We had wept and thanked him. I had married him six months later, convinced I was marrying the most generous man on earth.

"He stole from Dad to pay for Mom," I said, my voice shaking. "He manipulated us into worshiping him using our own family heirloom."

Nadine covered her mouth, a sob escaping her. "Oh my god. Sylvia, he's a monster."

"He's worse than a monster," I said, slipping the watch and the receipt into my pocket. "He's a con artist who has spent a decade building his life with our stolen parts."

My phone buzzed again.

I looked at the screen. It was an unknown number.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Sylvia," a rough, unfamiliar male voice said. "Your husband left something with me. He said if he didn't pick it up by 9:00 a.m. today, I should call you."

"Who is this?" I demanded.

"I run Iron & Gold Brokers," the man said. "He dropped off a violin case last night. Said it was worth a million bucks. But lady, I opened it. It ain't a violin in here."