Chapter 2
"Your daughter sold our home and took the money! This is insane!"
"The home you legally put in her name, correct?"
He fell silent.
"That was an agreement between us."
"Then I suggest you review the terms of that agreement."
"Did you know what she was planning?"
My mother took a deep breath.
"I knew my daughter was suffering. What I didn't know was how long she'd been suffering."
"Elena is destroying our marriage."
A short laugh came from the other end of the line.
It wasn't a happy laugh.
It was the exhausted laugh of a woman who had heard far too many excuses.
"Daniel, you moved in with another woman and told my daughter she should be grateful for the opportunity to win you back. Exactly what marriage are you accusing her of destroying?"
He said nothing.
"If you need to contact Elena, do it through her attorney," my mother continued. "And don't ever call me again just to yell at me."
She hung up.
Daniel stood there for several seconds with the phone still pressed to his ear.
Then he dialed another number.
Vanessa's.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" she answered.
"I need you to come here."
"I'm in a meeting."
"Elena sold the house."
Silence.
"What?"
"She sold the apartment and left the country."
"And the money?"
Daniel clenched his jaw.
He had never told Vanessa that the apartment was registered solely in my name.
Much less why.
"We have a problem," he muttered.
But the real problem was only beginning.
## Three Weeks Earlier, I Had Found a Folder
It started while I was packing the documents we kept in the small desk in our bedroom.
I was looking for my birth certificate and some university paperwork.
Daniel had a habit of leaving his documents scattered everywhere and then blaming me whenever he couldn't find something.
That afternoon, I opened a drawer I hadn't touched in months.
Inside was a blue folder.
On the cover were the words:
"Riverside Project."
I vaguely remembered the name.
Daniel had told me he was investing with a business partner in a small commercial property.
According to him, it was an investment that would someday allow us to retire comfortably.
But when I opened the folder, I discovered it had nothing to do with what he'd told me.
There were loan applications.
Copies of wire transfers.
Payment receipts.
And a purchase agreement for an apartment in another city.