For weeks, I had tried to warn them. After my initial meeting with Isabella, a gut feeling—an instinct honed over eighty years of reading people—had compelled me to hire a private investigator. The preliminary report was horrifying, a trail of deceit spanning multiple states. But my family, so utterly bewitched by Isabella’s flawless performance, refused to listen. They saw my evidence as the paranoid ramblings of a woman losing her grip.