I couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in.

The third folder nearly broke me.

Credit cards.

Maggie’s accounts.

Except I’d never opened these accounts. Never seen these cards. But there was my name, my Social Security number, a falsified mark where mine should’ve been—fifteen different cards, all maxed out.

Total balance: $96,000.

He’d stolen my identity.

My husband—the man who held my hand through childbirth and my mother’s funeral and our daughter’s wedding—had used my name to do it.

I sat there for a long time, breathing in and out, trying to anchor myself to something real.

At the bottom of the box was an envelope—thick, cream-colored—my name written in Bob’s handwriting across the front.

I opened it with steady hands.

The grief, the shock—all of it had burned away. What was left was something colder. Clearer.

Inside was a letter.