PART 4 — Ask About the Baby
“What did you two do?”
The words barely left my mouth.
Upstairs, another floorboard creaked.
I locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket just as Ryan appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Emily?”
I looked up.
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing down there?”
“Cleaning.”
He glanced at the kitchen.
The dishes were already done.
The counters were spotless.
There was absolutely nothing left to clean.
Still, he nodded.
“Okay.”
He started back toward the bedroom.
Then stopped.
“Are you coming up?”
“In a minute.”
He studied me for a few seconds.
“Everything okay?”
That question.
He kept asking it.
And every time, I wondered whether he genuinely believed I knew nothing or whether he was testing me.
“Everything’s fine.”
He disappeared.
I waited until I heard the bedroom door close.
Then I pulled out my phone again.
The message was still there.
You don’t know the worst part yet. Ask about the baby.
I enlarged the photograph.
Ryan.
Lauren.
Outside a hotel.
Kissing.
Eight months earlier.
There was no ambiguity.
No angle that could be misunderstood.
His hand was around her waist.
Her fingers were pressed against his chest.
I knew the coat Lauren was wearing.
I had given it to her for Christmas.
The thought nearly made me sick.
But the photograph wasn’t what frightened me anymore.
It was those final four words.
Ask about the baby.
I typed again.
What baby?
Nothing.
Who are you?
Nothing.
Is Lauren pregnant?
Nothing.
I waited five minutes.
Ten.
No response.
Finally, I saved the number under one word.
UNKNOWN.
Then I opened my messages with Lauren.
I almost typed the question directly.
Are you pregnant?
I stopped.
Too easy.
If she and Ryan had been hiding something for nearly a year, one impulsive text would only warn them.
I deleted it.
Instead, I searched through our old conversations.
Eight months.
Nine months.
Ten months.
And then I found something I had completely forgotten.
Seven months earlier, Lauren had canceled our mother’s birthday dinner.
She said she had food poisoning.
I remembered Mom being annoyed because Lauren had promised to bring the cake.
The next morning, Lauren texted me.
Still sick. Think I caught some awful stomach bug.
Three days later:
Finally feeling human again.
Nothing unusual.
Except now every ordinary memory felt suspicious.
I kept scrolling.
Six months earlier.
Lauren:
Do you still have that heating pad you used when you were pregnant with Ben?
I stared at the message.
My reply:
Probably somewhere in the closet. Why?
Lauren:
Back pain. Getting old 😂
I had found it and given it to her.
I put my phone down.
No.
That proved nothing.
People had back pain.
People got sick.
I wasn’t going to build a story around random symptoms because an anonymous stranger had sent four words.
I needed evidence.
The next morning, Ryan was in the shower when I woke.
His phone sat on the nightstand.
For one second, temptation hit me.
Pick it up.
Open it.
Find everything.
But I didn’t know his new passcode anyway.
And more importantly, I didn’t want my entire plan depending on information I had taken from a locked device.
So I left it alone.
Ryan came out wearing a towel.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He smiled.
“Sleep okay?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“Thinking.”
His expression tightened.
“About?”
I looked directly at him.
“My sister.”
He froze for half a second.
Then continued drying his hair.
“What about her?”
“You said she’s having an affair.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“With a married man.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have children?”
Ryan stopped.
It was tiny.
A fraction of a second.
But I saw it.
“I don’t know.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
He tossed the towel into the laundry basket.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’m worried about her.”
“You should talk to Lauren.”
“I will.”
That answer clearly made him nervous.
“When?”
I almost smiled.
“Why?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Maybe today.”
Ryan turned toward the closet.
“I wouldn’t pressure her.”
There it was.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s obviously going through something.”
“An affair?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting that you’re so sympathetic.”
He turned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Emily, you’ve been acting strange.”
I almost said:
My husband has been sleeping with my sister. Strange seems appropriate.
Instead, I smiled.
“Maybe I’m adjusting to our new marriage.”
His expression changed immediately.
“What does that mean?”
“I have work today.”
“With Daniel?”
“Yes.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
“Again?”
“It’s a job.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“No problem.”
I walked toward the bathroom.
Behind me, Ryan said:
“Are you attracted to him?”
I turned slowly.
“Are you asking me as my husband or as the man who requested an open marriage?”
He didn’t answer.
“Because those are apparently two different people now.”
I closed the bathroom door.
For the first time in days, I smiled for a reason that had nothing to do with pretending.
At ten, I met Daniel at the restaurant project.
The space was still under construction.
Exposed wiring.
Bare floors.
Plastic sheeting.
Dust everywhere.
And I loved it.
I had forgotten how much I loved walking into an unfinished room and seeing what it could become.
Daniel handed me a hard hat.
“Ready?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I haven’t done this in years.”
“Your drawings say otherwise.”
For two hours, we worked.
Really worked.
We argued about lighting.
Changed the seating plan.
Discussed materials.
At one point, Daniel disagreed with my suggestion for the back wall.
Instead of dismissing me, he asked me to explain.
So I did.
Then he stared at the wall.
“You’re right.”
Two words.
You’re right.
I couldn’t remember the last time Ryan had said them without sarcasm.
Around noon, Daniel handed me coffee.
“You seem distracted.”
I looked at him.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“It’s personal.”
He nodded.
“Then I won’t ask.”
That surprised me.
Most people said they wouldn’t pry and then immediately pried.
Daniel simply went back to the plans.
After a minute, I said:
“My marriage is complicated.”
He looked up.
“Okay.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“You said it’s personal.”
I laughed softly.
“You’re strange.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
My phone buzzed.
Lauren.
Can we meet?
My heart accelerated.
I stared at the message.
Daniel noticed my expression.
“Everything okay?”
“I don’t know.”
I replied:
Where?
Lauren sent the name of a café.
Twenty minutes.
I packed my things.
Daniel didn’t ask questions.
“Send me your notes tonight?”
“I will.”
As I turned to leave, he said:
“Emily.”
I looked back.
“Whatever is happening, don’t let it convince you that this part of your life isn’t real.”
I frowned.
“What part?”
He gestured toward the plans.
“This.”
I looked down at the folder in my hands.
Work.
My work.
Something mine.
“Thank you.”
Then I left.
Lauren was already sitting in the back corner of the café when I arrived.
She looked terrible.
No makeup.
Hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
Dark circles under her eyes.
For one dangerous second, she looked like my little sister again.
Not the woman kissing my husband.
The girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
The teenager who called me crying after her first breakup.
The sister I had defended when our parents were angry with her.
Then I remembered the photograph.
I sat across from her.
“What’s wrong?”
Lauren wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“I need to tell you something.”
My pulse increased.
“Okay.”
She looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
“I think Ryan is lying to you.”
Almost impressive.
She was going to sacrifice him.
“What makes you think that?”
“He talks to me.”
“About what?”
“Your marriage.”
I kept my face neutral.
“Why?”
“We’re friends.”
Friends.
“Since when are you and my husband close enough to discuss our marriage?”
She swallowed.
“I don’t know. It just happened.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
Lie.
I had a photograph from eleven months earlier.
“What has he told you?”
Lauren looked uncomfortable.
“That you two haven’t been happy.”
“Did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then why would you believe him?”
“I didn’t say I believed everything.”
I leaned back.
“Why did you ask me here?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Real tears.
That made everything worse.
“Because I think you should close the marriage.”
I almost laughed.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ryan isn’t handling it well.”
“Interesting.”
“He gets jealous.”
“I noticed.”
“And I think he’s using it as an excuse to behave badly.”
That was possibly the first honest thing she had said.
“Behave badly how?”
Lauren looked down.
“I don’t know exactly.”
Another lie.
I let silence stretch between us.
People hate silence.
Eventually they fill it.
Lauren did.
“Has Ryan told you who he’s seeing?”
“No.”
“Have you asked?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Someone I don’t know.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
I watched them.
Then I asked casually:
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Her eyes snapped up.
“What?”
“You’re single. I’m asking.”
“No.”
Too fast.
“No one?”
“No.”
“Not even casually?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
I nodded.
Then I asked:
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
The color drained from her face.
There it was.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Pure fear.
“What?”
I kept my voice calm.
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Simple question.”
“Emily, that’s incredibly personal.”
“So is discussing my marriage with my husband.”
She looked away.
Her breathing changed.
I knew.
Maybe not everything.
But something.
“Lauren.”
“No.”
The answer came too late.
“No, what?”
“I’ve never been pregnant.”
I stared at her.
She couldn’t meet my eyes.
I wanted to confront her.
Show the photograph.
Demand everything.
But the anonymous message echoed in my mind.
You don’t know the worst part yet.
So I changed direction.
“Okay.”
Lauren looked surprised.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
I stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to work.”
“Emily.”
I looked at her.
She seemed close to breaking.
For a second, I thought she might confess.
Instead, she whispered:
“Be careful with Ryan.”
I almost admired the hypocrisy.
“You too.”
Then I left.
The moment I reached my car, my phone rang.
Unknown.
The same number.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Who is this?”
Nothing.
Then a woman’s voice.
“Did you ask her?”
I gripped the phone.
“Who are you?”
“Did you ask Lauren about the baby?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That she’s never been pregnant.”
A sad laugh came through the phone.
“Of course she did.”
My heart pounded.
“Tell me who you are.”
“My name doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“You’ll understand soon.”
“I’m done with games.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Then tell me about the baby.”
Silence.
Finally:
“Last February, Lauren was pregnant.”
My chest tightened.
“With Ryan’s child?”
“I don’t know.”
That wasn’t the answer I expected.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I know she was pregnant. I know Ryan was involved. I don’t know if he was the father.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I drove her to the clinic.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Who are you?”
Another pause.
Then:
“I’m someone Lauren used to trust.”
“Used to?”
“Until I found out what she was doing with your husband.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened to the pregnancy?”
The woman hesitated.
“That’s the part Lauren needs to tell you.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Why contact me if you’re going to hide half the truth?”
“Because there’s another secret.”
My grip tightened.
“What secret?”
“Ryan gave Lauren money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Check your finances.”
“Our finances are fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I thought of our savings.
Ryan managed most of the investment accounts.
I handled household expenses.
We had divided things that way years ago.
Suddenly, that arrangement felt unbelievably foolish.
“What was the money for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Was it because of the pregnancy?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because the payment happened three days after her clinic appointment.”
My mouth went dry.
“How do you know about the payment?”
“I saw the bank confirmation.”
“Where?”
“On Lauren’s phone.”
I closed my eyes.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
That wasn’t dinner.
That wasn’t a hotel room.
That wasn’t an impulsive affair.
That was a secret big enough to require money.
“Send me proof.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer surprised me.
“Verify everything yourself.”
Then she hung up.
I sat in my car for several minutes.
Finally, I opened our banking app.
Checking.
Normal.
Savings.
Normal.
Then investments.
I couldn’t access one account.
Password changed.
My stomach dropped.
I called the financial adviser whose name appeared on our old statements.
After verifying my identity, he explained that because the account was jointly held, he could provide transaction history.
“Can you email the statements?”
“Certainly.”
Ten minutes later, they arrived.
I searched February.
Nothing.
March.
Nothing.
Then January.
A withdrawal.
$25,000.
My hands went cold.
The recipient wasn’t Lauren.
It was an LLC.
LHC Consulting.
I searched the company online.
Nothing useful.
Then I searched the business registration.
Owner:
Lauren Hope Carter.
My sister.
There it was.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Transferred from our joint investment account to a company owned by Lauren.
I took screenshots.
Downloaded statements.
Saved everything.
Then I noticed something else.
Another withdrawal.
Six months earlier.
$8,500.
Same company.
Then another.
$4,000.
Another.
$12,000.
I added them.
Nearly fifty thousand dollars.
My husband had transferred almost $50,000 of our money to my sister.
I felt physically sick.
This wasn’t just cheating.
He was moving our assets.
Why?
I called Rachel.
She answered immediately.
“Tell me you found something good.”
“Ryan gave Lauren almost fifty thousand dollars.”
Silence.
“What?”
I explained.
Rachel didn’t interrupt once.
When I finished, she said:
“Emily, you need a lawyer.”
The word frightened me.
Lawyer.
It made everything real.
“I know.”
“No. I mean now.”
I looked through the windshield.
“I know.”
“And don’t tell Ryan.”
“I won’t.”
That afternoon, Rachel gave me the name of a family-law attorney her coworker had used.
I called.
There was a cancellation the next morning.
I took it.
That evening, Ryan came home carrying flowers.
Flowers.
He hadn’t brought me flowers in almost a year.
“For you.”
I stared at them.
“Why?”
He laughed.
“Do I need a reason?”
Apparently fifty thousand dollars bought guilt in bouquet form.
“They’re beautiful.”
He kissed my cheek.
“I was thinking maybe we could go somewhere this weekend.”
“Where?”
“Just us.”
“What about our arrangement?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
Of course he had.
“I think maybe we moved too fast.”
I almost laughed.
“You wanted this.”
“I know.”
“And now you don’t?”
“I’m saying maybe we should pause.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“I miss us.”
The words should have meant something.
Ten years earlier, they would have.
Five years earlier, maybe.
But now all I could think about was my sister.
The hotel.
The money.
The baby.
“You miss us?”
“Yeah.”
I smiled softly.
“That’s sweet.”
Relief spread across his face.
He thought he was pulling me back.
Then my phone buzzed.
Daniel.
Ryan saw the name.
His expression darkened.
“He’s texting you at night now?”
“It’s work.”
“At eight thirty?”
“Restaurants are often evening projects.”
Ryan put the flowers down harder than necessary.
“I don’t like him.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know what he wants.”
I stared at him.
“And what does he want?”
“You.”
I almost laughed.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You were fine with other men wanting me when they were imaginary.”
Ryan’s face hardened.
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s unfair?”
“I didn’t think you’d immediately start forming some emotional connection.”
“I had coffee with him.”
“Twice.”
“For work.”
“Emily, I’m trying to save our marriage.”
There it was.
I looked at him for several seconds.
Then asked:
“From what?”
He froze.
“What?”
“What are you trying to save our marriage from?”
He looked away.
“Us drifting apart.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Another lie.
I stepped closer.
“Ryan.”
He looked at me.
“Is there anything you need to tell me?”
His face went completely still.
For one second, I thought he knew.
Then:
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“About money?”
His eyes changed.
There.
Tiny.
But unmistakable.
“What about money?”
“I was looking at our investments.”
His face lost color.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I usually handle those.”
“They’re mine too.”
“Of course.”
“Almost fifty thousand dollars is missing.”
Silence.
Ryan swallowed.
“It’s not missing.”
“Where is it?”
“Invested.”
“In LHC Consulting?”
His face changed completely.
He knew.
“Emily—”
“What is LHC Consulting?”
He stared at me.
Then made the worst decision possible.
He lied again.
“It’s a company a friend recommended.”
“Which friend?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Who owns it?”
“I’d have to check.”
I smiled.
“Okay.”
He looked confused.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
I turned toward the stairs.
“Good night.”
“Emily.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Why are you suddenly looking through financial records?”
I turned back.
“Because we’re opening our marriage.”
“What does that have to do with money?”
“Everything.”
He stared at me.
I continued:
“If we’re creating independent lives, I should understand our finances.”
“We’re not creating independent lives.”
“Aren’t we?”
“No.”
“Then what are we doing?”
He had no answer.
I went upstairs.
Ten minutes later, I heard the front door open.
Ryan left.
I checked location sharing.
Off.
For the first time.
That told me more than the dot ever had.
At 10:16, my phone rang.
Lauren.
I answered.
“Emily.”
She was crying.
“What happened?”
“Ryan came here.”
Of course.
“What does he want?”
“He says you found the money.”
“I did.”
“Emily, I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
Silence.
“Lauren.”
“It wasn’t what you think.”
“Nearly fifty thousand dollars?”
“I didn’t keep all of it.”
“What does that mean?”
She sobbed.
“Please don’t hate me.”
My anger became cold.
“Tell me about the baby.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then Lauren whispered:
“Who told you?”
There it was.
Confirmation.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“No. What matters is whether Ryan was the father.”
Lauren began crying harder.
“Emily…”
“Was Ryan the father?”
“I don’t know.”
The same answer.
My heart pounded.
“How can you not know?”
“Because…”
She stopped.
“Because what?”
“There was someone else.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You’re sleeping with my husband and protecting another man?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I tell you, everything gets worse.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Worse?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
Lauren’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“The money wasn’t for me.”
“What?”
“The money Ryan transferred.”
“Then who was it for?”
She started crying again.
And suddenly I knew this conversation was about to change everything.
“Lauren.”
“It was supposed to fix something.”
“Fix what?”
“I made a mistake.”
“Sleeping with my husband?”
“No.”
That answer stunned me.
“No?”
“What happened with Ryan was wrong. I know that.”
“Then what mistake are you talking about?”
“The baby.”
My heart hammered.
“What happened to the baby?”
Lauren whispered something I couldn’t hear.
“What?”
She repeated it.
This time, I heard every word.
“The baby was born.”
I stopped breathing.
“What did you say?”
“The baby was born, Emily.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Where?”
“I can’t—”
“WHERE IS THE BABY?”
“Please.”
“Lauren, where is that child?”
She was sobbing now.
“Safe.”
“With who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is Ryan the father?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Does Ryan think he’s the father?”
Silence.
That silence was the answer.
“Oh my God.”
“Emily, please listen.”
“How old?”
“Five months.”
Five months.
A living child.
Not a pregnancy that had ended.
Not a rumor.
A baby.
My sister’s baby.
Possibly my husband’s child.
“Why doesn’t anyone know you gave birth?”
“I stayed with a friend outside the state near the end.”
I remembered.
Lauren had disappeared for almost two months earlier that year.
She told everyone she was helping a college friend recover from surgery.
Mom complained Lauren barely called.
I never questioned it.
“Who has the baby?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Then come here.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Ryan is here.”
My blood turned cold.
“Ryan is with you right now?”
“He stepped outside.”
“Put him on.”
“No.”
“Lauren.”
“I need to tell you something before he comes back.”
“What?”
“The money.”
“What about it?”
“Some of it went to medical bills.”
“And the rest?”
“Legal fees.”
My stomach dropped.
“Legal fees for what?”
Lauren began speaking quickly.
“Emily, there were papers. Ryan wanted everything handled quietly. He said nobody could ever know until the timing was right.”
“What papers?”
“I shouldn’t have signed them.”
“WHAT PAPERS?”
Then I heard a door open through the phone.
Lauren gasped.
“He’s back.”
“Lauren—”
The call ended.
I immediately called again.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived.
Not from Lauren.
Unknown number.
The stranger.
Now you understand why I contacted you.
I typed:
Who has the baby?
The reply came immediately.
I do.
I stared at the screen.
My hands began shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
Who are you?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
My name is Rebecca.
I didn’t recognize it.
Rebecca who?
The answer took almost a minute.
When it arrived, I read it four times.
Rebecca Morgan. Ryan’s sister.
I stared at the message.
Ryan didn’t have a sister.
At least, that’s what he had told me for twelve years.
His parents were dead.
He had always said he was an only child.
I typed:
Ryan doesn’t have a sister.
Rebecca responded:
That’s another lie.
Then a photograph arrived.
A woman around forty holding a baby.
The baby had dark hair.
Round cheeks.
And eyes that made my heart stop.
Ryan’s eyes.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe my frightened mind searching for similarities.
Then Rebecca sent another message.
A scanned document.
I enlarged it.
My vision blurred.
It appeared to be temporary guardianship paperwork.
Lauren Carter.
Mother.
Rebecca Morgan.
Guardian.
And beneath that was a section labeled:
Alleged biological father.
The name written there was:
Ryan Matthews.
My husband.
I couldn’t breathe.
Then Rebecca sent one final message.
Ryan thinks I’m helping him hide the baby from you. I’m not.
I typed:
Why are you helping me?
Her answer came immediately.
Because Ryan lied to me too.
About what?
This time, she didn’t answer by text.
She called.
I picked up.
“Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was shaking.
“Tell me everything.”
“I will.”
“Start with why Ryan told me he was an only child.”
Rebecca was silent.
Then she said:
“Because twelve years ago, I tried to stop him from marrying you.”
My blood ran cold.
“Why?”
“Because I knew something about Ryan that you didn’t.”
“What?”
Rebecca inhaled.
Before she could answer, I heard the garage door opening downstairs.
Ryan.
He was home.
Rebecca heard it through the phone.
“Is that him?”
“Yes.”
Her voice became urgent.
“Emily, don’t tell him you’ve spoken to me.”
“Why?”
“Because if Ryan realizes you know about me, he’s going to know I gave you the documents.”
“What documents?”
“The ones that explain what the fifty thousand dollars was really paying for.”
My bedroom door opened.
Ryan stood there.
I lowered the phone.
His eyes went directly to it.
“Who are you talking to?”
Rebecca whispered through the speaker:
“Don’t say my name.”
Ryan took one step into the room.
“Emily?”
I looked at the man I had slept beside for ten years.
The man who had asked me to open our marriage.
The man who had apparently fathered a child with my sister.
The man who had secretly transferred almost fifty thousand dollars.
The man who had a sister he had erased from his life before I ever met him.
And suddenly, the affair seemed like only the first layer of something much darker.
I smiled at Ryan.
“Just Rachel.”
He stared at me.
Then he smiled back.
“Okay.”
But neither of us believed the other anymore.
And as Ryan turned toward the bathroom, Rebecca whispered one final sentence into my ear.
“Emily, the baby isn’t the secret you should be most afraid of.”
I covered the phone with my hand.
“What is?”
Rebecca’s answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“The house you’re living in.”
I froze.
My eyes moved around the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Our home.
The house Ryan and I had bought seven years earlier.
“What about my house?”
Rebecca took a breath.
Then said:
“Emily, according to the documents I found, Ryan sold it three months ago.”
END OF PART 4
