She knew my mother's maiden name, my childhood street, my first pet's name, and probably a dozen other answers people use to confirm their identities.
For years, that knowledge had been part of our intimacy.
Now it was part of what made the situation frightening.
That afternoon, I met Daniel in person.
I didn't particularly want to.
But Julia had asked whether he would be willing to provide a written account of how he obtained the documents, and Daniel had requested a conversation first.
We agreed to meet in the lobby café of a large hotel near Easton Town Center.
It was public, quiet, and unlikely to be somewhere Rachel would appear unexpectedly.
I arrived early.
I chose a table near the windows and ordered coffee I didn't intend to drink.
Daniel walked in seven minutes later.
He was taller than I'd expected.
About six feet two, perhaps thirty-four years old, with dark brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and the tired expression of someone who hadn't slept.
He wore a gray jacket over a black shirt.
I'd seen him only briefly through the restaurant window months earlier.
Now, standing a few feet away, he seemed less like the mysterious man who had destroyed my marriage and more like an ordinary person caught in something he'd helped create.
He approached slowly.
“Mike?”
I nodded.
He looked at the empty chair.
“Can I sit?”
“That's why we're here.”
He sat.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I could hear a coffee machine hissing behind the counter.
Daniel placed his phone on the table.
“I don't really know where to start.”
I looked at him.
“Start with the truth.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I expected to hate hearing his voice in person.
I did hate parts of it.
But I was more interested in what he knew.
“When did you and Rachel start seeing each other?” I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably.
“We started working closely together in June.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He lowered his eyes.
“We started talking outside work a few weeks after that.”
“Romantically?”
“Not at first.”
I watched him.
He exhaled.
“Eventually, yes.”
“When?”
“Late July.”
That was around the time Rachel had begun sleeping with her phone under her pillow.
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Did you know she was married?”
“Yes.”
At least he didn't pretend otherwise.
“Then why did you get involved?”
Daniel looked toward the window.
“Because she told me the marriage was over.”
I waited.
“She said you two had been unhappy for a long time. She said you were living like roommates. That you'd already agreed to separate but hadn't announced it because of the house and family.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet me?”
“No.”
“Did it bother you that she was still living with her husband?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Apparently not enough.”
He accepted that without argument.
“No,” he said. “Not enough.”
The admission surprised me.
He continued.
“I believed what I wanted to believe. Rachel was telling me she was unhappy. She said I made her feel alive again. I knew it was messy, but I convinced myself it was different because you two were already finished.”
I leaned back.
“And were you sleeping together before she moved into your apartment?”
He went still.
For a moment, I thought he might lie.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.”
I looked away.
I had expected that answer.
But hearing it made something ache deep in my chest.
Rachel had looked me in the eyes and insisted nothing physical had happened.
She had made me feel guilty for asking.
I stared at a couple sitting near the opposite window.
The man was showing the woman something on his phone.
She laughed.
For a brief moment, I felt as though I were watching a version of my life that existed in another universe.
“When?” I asked.
Daniel swallowed.
“August.”
I nodded once.
The month on the forged document.
Of course.
Daniel kept speaking.
“I know that doesn't make me look good.”
“It doesn't.”
“I'm not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
He accepted that, too.
Then he explained the financial paperwork.
Rachel had told him that she and I had negotiated an informal property arrangement before beginning the divorce process.
According to her, we had agreed that she could receive a portion of our home equity early, while I remained in the townhouse until it was eventually sold.
Daniel believed she was receiving money that belonged to her under our supposed settlement.
He had been looking for a condominium closer to downtown because his apartment lease was ending.
Rachel suggested they purchase a place together.
At first, he resisted.
He thought it was too soon.
But Rachel kept insisting that she was finished with our marriage and wanted a fresh start.
“She said there was no point paying rent for another year if we knew we wanted to build something,” Daniel explained.
I felt sick hearing the word build.
Rachel and I had used that word constantly.
Build a home.
Build a family.
Build a future.
Apparently, she had started using it with someone else.