Mark looked happy, the poor boy. He looked like a man who had won the lottery, unaware that the ticket was counterfeit. He was a good man, soft-hearted, just like his grandfather was. He saw the world through a lens of kindness that made him blind to the sharks swimming in his bathtub.

I adjusted my glasses, my grip tightening on the handle of my oak cane. I wasn’t just here to eat cold soup in the dark. I was here to watch. I had spent six months investigating Tiffany, trying to find the crack in her porcelain veneer. I knew she was a climber. I knew she had burned through three fiancés before landing my Mark. But I needed proof. I needed something visceral enough to wake Mark up before he signed the marriage license.