Chapter 3
Marcus's black sedan was parked three houses down from what should have been my home—the colonial with the blue shutters Ethan and I had purchased together a lifetime ago. I sat in the passenger seat, hands trembling slightly as I accepted the coffee Marcus passed to me. Dawn was just breaking, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street.
"She follows a routine," Marcus said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "Leaves at 7:15 most mornings, drops your son at school, then heads to a yoga studio downtown."
I winced at the casual mention of Lucas. My son. The boy I hadn't been allowed to properly speak with since my return.
"But today," Marcus continued, checking his watch, "she's meeting someone else first."
As if on cue, a silver BMW turned onto the street, slowing as it approached my house. The car parked a discreet distance away, its engine shutting off. Through the early morning mist, I could make out a man's silhouette behind the wheel.
"Who is that?" I whispered.
Marcus lifted his camera with its telephoto lens. "Let's find out."
The front door of my house opened, and Emily emerged, looking over her shoulder furtively before hurrying down the walkway. She wore oversized sunglasses despite the dim light and clutched her purse tightly against her side. The clicking of Marcus's camera was the only sound in the car as Emily slipped into the passenger seat of the BMW.
"She's not exactly being subtle," I said, a bitter taste filling my mouth.
"People like her get comfortable in their lies," Marcus replied, continuing to document the encounter. "They start believing they're untouchable."
Through the windshield of the BMW, I could see Emily leaning across the center console, her lips pressed against the driver's. The kiss wasn't brief or casual—it was passionate, familiar. The camera clicked rapidly.
"So much for being Ethan's devoted wife," I muttered.
Marcus lowered the camera, showing me the digital display. The images were crystal clear—Emily in another man's arms, her wedding ring (my wedding ring, technically) glinting in the early light.
"Evidence," Marcus said simply. "The first piece of many, I suspect."
* * *
That evening, I sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, my laptop balanced precariously on my knees. The room service tray with my barely-touched dinner sat forgotten on the desk. On the screen before me was a newly created Facebook page: "Justice for Jane: The Truth Behind the Lies."
Martha had suggested it—a way to counter the narrative Emily had been spinning about me. With trembling fingers, I uploaded my first post, a simple statement of facts: I was Jane Campbell, the legal wife of Ethan Simmons. I had spent six years caring for my mother-in-law in Europe at my husband's request. I had returned to find another woman claiming my identity and my family.
"No accusations," Arthur Pierce had cautioned during our last meeting. "Just your truth. Let them draw their own conclusions."
I hit publish and exhaled slowly. It felt like sending a paper boat into a hurricane, but it was something—a small act of reclaiming my voice.
Within minutes, the notifications began. At first, there were a few supportive comments, mostly from strangers who seemed moved by my story. Then came the deluge.
"Pathetic attempt to break up a happy family."
"Everyone knows Emily is Ethan's real wife. You're just some desperate stalker."
"Stay away from Lucas! Haven't you hurt him enough?"
The comments grew increasingly vicious, personal. Someone posted a fabricated story about me abandoning my family years ago for a lover in Europe. Another claimed I had mental health issues and had been institutionalized.
My hands shook as I scrolled through the torrent of hatred. These people didn't know me, yet they spoke with such venom, such certainty. I recognized some of the names—Emily's friends, women I'd glimpsed at Eleanor's memorial. She had mobilized her entire network against me.
A private message notification appeared. I clicked it hesitantly.
"I know you're telling the truth. Emily has been lying to everyone for years. I have information that could help you. Meet me tomorrow."
The message was from Sarah Evans—a name I didn't recognize. Was it a trap? Another of Emily's manipulations? Or could it be an actual ally?
Before I could decide, my phone rang. It was Marcus.
"I need you to meet me downtown tomorrow morning," he said without preamble. "I've tracked Emily to a regular meeting spot. You're going to want to see who she's been conspiring with."
I glanced back at the message from Sarah Evans, then at the cruel comments still flooding my page. Whatever game Emily was playing, it was time to change the rules.
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