Then turned to the second section of Marcus’s report.
I had skimmed it before.
That night, I read every line.
Hotel dates.
Observed arrivals.
Departure times.
Public business records.
Then I reached the marriage history again.
Adrian Thomas Cole.
Melissa Anne Hart.
Married twelve years earlier in Travis County.
Dissolved fourteen months later.
I turned to the certified marriage record attached at the back.
The witness line caught my eye.
Elaine Hart.
Melissa’s mother.
I leaned closer.
There it was.
Elaine had witnessed the marriage.
My chest tightened.
Suddenly, the phone call made sense.
“I’m sorry.”
Elaine had not been apologizing because she was emotional.
She had known who Adrian was.
Not a college friend.
Not an old boyfriend.
Melissa’s first husband.
A husband I had never known existed.
I turned to the divorce decree.
It showed no children.
No major property.
A short marriage ending with both parties waiving further claims.
Then another document caught my attention.
Marcus had included a publicly available address history.
For several months after the divorce, Melissa had moved back into Elaine’s home.
That meant her mother had been there for the collapse of that marriage too.
Whatever Melissa had told me, Elaine knew the complete version.
I took out my phone.
I had begun typing Elaine’s name when someone started pounding on the front door downstairs.
Hard.
Fast.
Desperate.
I checked the time.
12:13 a.m.
Melissa had been gone less than twenty minutes.
The pounding came again.
“James!”
Her voice carried through the house.
“Open the door.”
I remained seated for several seconds.
Then another round.
“James!”
I went downstairs.
Through the glass beside the door, I could see her standing under the porch light.
No coat.
Purse still over one shoulder.
Her makeup looked exactly as it had when she left.
She had not been gone long enough to reach downtown, meet anyone, and return.
She had seen the photograph and turned around almost immediately.
I opened the door but stayed in the doorway.
Melissa pushed forward.
I did not move.
“Let me in.”
“You live here.”
She stared at me.
“Then move.”
I stepped aside.
She entered quickly.
Her eyes went first to the small table.
The ring was still there.
That seemed to frighten her more than the photograph.
“You hired someone to follow me?”
“I hired someone to document what was happening.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe.”
“You had me followed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s controlling.”
I almost admired how quickly she found the old script.
“Melissa.”
“What?”
“Adrian.”
The name stopped her.
For a moment, she simply stared.
Then:
“What about him?”
“You told me you hadn’t seen him.”
“I haven’t been seeing him.”
I took out my phone.
Opened the photo.