“Elena,” Diane said softly. “Sit down, sweetheart.”
She had never called me sweetheart before.
I put my bag down slowly. My keys were still in my hand.
“What is this?”
Marcus did not look up. He turned another page in the folder, and his jaw tightened.
“Marcus, what’s going on?”
“Sit down, Elena.”
I sat. The chair felt wrong under me, like it belonged to someone else’s kitchen.
He slid the folder across the table. I opened it, and my stomach turned over.
There were bank statements with my name printed across the top, screenshots of messages I had never sent, and a dating profile with my photograph, listing preferences I would never write.
“This isn’t mine,” I said.
