One eye.
And a small mole just beneath it.
For a moment, I almost pulled the photograph out.
Then I stopped.
My ex-husband had spent years calling me paranoid whenever I noticed something suspicious.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t become someone who searched through another person’s belongings simply because fear told me to.
So I left it alone.
UNTIL THAT SATURDAY IN MY MOTHER’S KITCHEN.
Five thousand dollars.
Lauren.
That mole.
Suddenly, refusing to investigate the connection felt more foolish than looking into it.
“I need to go somewhere,” I told Mom.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan opened his apartment door wearing an old T-shirt.
“Rachel?”
He looked sleepy.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I need to see that photograph.”
His expression shifted.
“What photograph?”
“The woman in the folder.”
He stared at me.
“Your ex.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I know her.”
For several seconds, Ethan said nothing.
Then he walked to the closet, retrieved the folder, and sat beside me.
“You’re sure you want to see it?”
“Yes.”
He opened the folder.
Then he set the photograph face-up on the coffee table.
My stomach dropped.
The woman was younger.
Her hairstyle was different.
Her face looked softer.
But there was no mistaking her.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Same mole.
“That’s Lauren.”
Ethan looked at me sharply.
“What?”
“My brother’s wife.”
He looked back at the photograph.
“No. Her name was Laura when I knew her.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then I told him why Lauren’s name had come up.
“My mom’s refrigerator died today.”
Ethan looked confused.
“What does that have to do with Lauren?”
“Mom couldn’t replace it because she gave Lauren all her emergency savings.” “How much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
His expression changed instantly.
“Rachel…”
