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

"A plane ticket?" I repeated, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the phone.

"First class," the pawnbroker grunted over the line. "Leaves Sea-Tac at 11:30 p.m. tonight. Lady, I don't want no part of whatever this is. He paid me five hundred bucks to hold this case for twenty-four hours, but now the cops are nosing around my block for an unrelated robbery. I want this hot potato out of my shop. Come get it."

"I'm on my way," I said. "Don't let anyone else take it. Especially not Kent."

"Just bring my five hundred," he clicked off.

I turned to Nadine. The shock of the stolen watch had temporarily frozen her, but the mention of a flight to Geneva snapped her back.

"He's fleeing," Nadine said, her eyes wide. "He's going to run with the auction money, and he's going to leave you to take the fall for the foreclosure and the forged appraisal."

"He can't run if we have his ticket and his ledgers," I said, already moving toward the door. "Nadine, stay here. File a missing persons report for Dad. Tell the police Kent Ashby took him against medical advice. I’m going to the pawnshop."

"Sylvia, wait!" Nadine grabbed my arm. "What if Kent goes to the pawnshop while you're there? He's desperate. He kidnapped an old man this morning. You don't know what he's capable of."

"I know exactly what he's capable of," I said, my voice hardening into something cold and sharp. "He’s capable of cowardice. And cowards only win when you look away."

I left Nadine with the nursing staff and drove downtown. The rain had turned into a miserable Seattle drizzle, slicking the neon signs of the pawn district. Iron & Gold Brokers was sandwiched between a liquor store and a vacant lot. The windows were barred, the glass thick and smudged.

I walked in. The air smelled of old dust, metal polish, and desperation.

A heavy-set man with a thick beard and a baseball cap was sitting behind bulletproof glass. He looked up, his eyes narrowing.

"You the wife?" he asked.

"Sylvia," I said, sliding five hundred dollars in cash—my emergency shop funds—through the slot.

He counted it quickly, then reached under the counter. He hauled up a worn, black, fiberglass violin case. It was heavy, covered in airline stickers. He shoved it through the reinforced swinging door.

"Take it," he said. "And if anyone asks, you were never here."

I carried the case to my car, my heart hammering against my ribs. I locked the doors, the sound clicking loudly in the quiet interior.

I laid the case across the passenger seat and unlatched the metal clasps.

It opened with a soft hiss.

Inside, there was no velvet lining, no delicate instrument. The foam had been violently ripped out. In its place were three black, leather-bound ledger books, a Swiss Air first-class ticket in Kent's name, and a stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills banded together. At least fifty thousand dollars.

But what caught my eye wasn't the money.

It was a large, manila envelope taped to the lid of the case.

My name was written on it.

My hands shook as I pulled it down and tore it open.

Inside was a life insurance policy document.

I had signed a standard policy five years ago, right after we got married, for $250,000. Basic coverage to protect the shop.

But this wasn't that policy.

The paperwork had been amended. The signature at the bottom was mine—or rather, a flawless forgery of mine.

The coverage amount had been increased to two million dollars.

And the beneficiary had been changed. It was no longer Mercer String Works.

It was Kent Ashby.

My stomach bottomed out. I stared at the date of the amendment. It was filed three weeks ago. Right around the time Lacy discovered the missing money at the foundation. Right around the time Kent realized the walls were closing in.

He wasn't just planning to run.

He was planning to make sure he ran a very wealthy widower.

A wave of absolute terror washed over me, immediately followed by a rage so hot it blurred my vision. He had used my father's heirloom to manipulate me. He had used my name to forge an appraisal. He had used my shop for a mortgage. And now, he was valuing my life at two million dollars to fund his escape.

I threw the policy down and grabbed the first black ledger. I flipped it open.

It wasn't foundation accounts.

It was a detailed, meticulously kept record of high-end string instruments. Buyers. Sellers. Dates.

And in the margin of every single entry was a small, red asterisk.

I traced my finger over a line from three years ago: 1714 Stradivarius 'Soil' copy. Sold to H. Vance, Bellevue. $450,000.

H. Vance. Harrison Vance was the chairman of the Cascade Chamber Foundation. He was Kent's boss.

I kept reading. Every red asterisk corresponded to an instrument that had passed through my shop for minor repairs or cleaning. Kent had been using my client list. He was finding wealthy collectors, arranging private sales of supposed masterpieces, and pocketing the money.

But where was he getting the fake instruments?

My eyes darted to the bottom of the page. A final column.

Supplier: A.M.

A.M.

Arthur Mercer.

My father.

My father hadn't just been kidnapped to keep him quiet. My father was the one making the forgeries.

"No," I whispered to the empty car. "No, Dad would never."

My father was a master, yes. He could build a violin from scratch that sounded like heaven. But he was an honest man. He despised forgeries. He always signed his own work with a tiny, microscopic 'A.M.' burned into the inside of the tailpiece.

Unless...

Unless his dementia had started much earlier than we realized. Unless Kent had manipulated a confused, brilliant old man into building masterpieces, convincing him he was just 'repairing' them, and then Kent slapped fake Guarneri and Stradivarius labels inside.

Suddenly, my phone rang through the car's Bluetooth speakers.

I jumped. The caller ID flashed: HARRISON VANCE.

The chairman of the foundation. The man who bought a fake Stradivarius three years ago.

I hit accept. "Mr. Vance?"

"Sylvia," Vance's voice was cold, sharp, and terrifyingly calm. "I am standing in your husband's office. Kent is missing. But I just received an anonymous email containing a photograph of a forged Guarneri appraisal with your signature on it."

Lacy. She had warned me she was going to blow the whistle.

"Mr. Vance, I can explain—"

"Save it," Vance snapped. "The foundation is missing half a million dollars. I have a forged appraisal tied to your shop. And tonight, Kent is supposed to present that Guarneri at my private gala to make us whole. If he doesn't show up with that violin, or the money, I am going to the FBI. And Sylvia? I'm giving them your name first."

"Wait!" I cried out. "The violin tonight... it's a fake. Everything Kent has sold you is a fake!"

Silence on the line. Then, a low, dangerous breath.

"You have until 8:00 p.m. tonight to bring me the truth, Sylvia," Vance said. "Or I burn your family to the ground."

The line went dead.

I looked at the ledger. I looked at the Swiss Air ticket.

Kent thought I was a quiet, obedient wife who would let him destroy my family.