After His Mistress Poisoned Our Daughter, I Exposed Her

Marcus Webb's office smells like old paper and burnt coffee. I sit across from him in a chair that squeaks when I shift my weight. He slides a folder across the desk. Doesn't say anything. Just watches me with those flat investigator eyes that have seen too much to be surprised by anything.

I open it.

The first page is a scholarship application. University of Washington, six years ago. The photograph stapled to the top corner shows a girl with dark hair and Angelique's bone structure. But the eyes are different. Softer. There's something unguarded in her smile, like she still believes the world might be kind.

The name beneath the photo reads *Luisa Flores*.

I flip through the pages. Her essay is three pages long, handwritten in careful cursive. She writes about her grandmother's folk songs. About wanting to teach literature to kids in Appalachia so they can see themselves in books. About how education feels like a door opening in a room that's been dark her whole life. The words are simple. Earnest. Real.

Nothing like Angelique's polished performance.

"She was the one we chose," I say. My voice sounds far away. "Not Angelique."

"Correct." Marcus taps another document. "Luisa Flores scored in the top two percent on her entrance exams. Three teacher recommendations. A scholarship committee unanimous vote. Then two weeks before orientation, the university received updated paperwork. New photograph. Same name, different face. No one caught it because they had no reason to look."

I stare at Luisa's photograph. She's holding her acceptance letter in the picture. Her smile is so wide it looks like it might break her face open.

"Where is she now?" I ask, even though I already know. I can feel it in the way Marcus went quiet when I called him yesterday. In the way he scheduled this meeting for early morning when the building is empty.

He slides another paper across the desk.

Death certificate. Luisa Flores. Nineteen years old. Cause of death: complications from untreated chronic kidney disease. Place of death: Morgantown, West Virginia. Date: four months after Angelique moved into my house.

"Kidney disease is treatable," Marcus says. "Especially caught early. She'd been documenting symptoms in letters to a school counselor. Asking about health insurance options through the scholarship. The counselor confirmed Luisa was supposed to have full medical coverage as part of the program."

"But Angelique took it."

"Angelique took everything." He opens another folder. "I tracked down a neighbor who knew the family. Said Luisa was the smart one. The kind one. Said Angelique was jealous from the time they were kids. When the scholarship letter came, Luisa showed everyone. Told her sister first. Two weeks later, Angelique disappeared. Took all of Luisa's documents with her. Birth certificate, social security card, acceptance letter. Everything. Luisa tried to contact the university, but without ID, without proof, she couldn't get anyone to listen."

I touch the photograph. Luisa's face blurs.

"She died alone in a county clinic," Marcus continues. "No family present. Angelique never came back. Never called. The neighbor said Luisa kept asking for her sister until the day she died."

I close the folder. My hands are steady. They shouldn't be. There's a girl in this photograph who believed in goodness. Who trusted her sister. Who died in pain while that sister wore her name like a stolen coat and smiled for cameras.

"I want copies of everything," I say.

Marcus nods. "Already made them."

I stand. Pick up the folder. "Send the bill to my studio."

"Rylee." He stops me at the door. "What are you going to do with this?"

I look back at him. "I'm going to make sure Angelique sees her sister's face every single day for the rest of her life."

Back at the studio, I spread the documents across my workbench. Luisa's photograph. Her death certificate. Her essay in that careful handwriting. I place them beside Maisy's baby blanket. Two girls who trusted the wrong person. Two girls who died because someone decided their lives were obstacles.

I pick up my phone. Dial Marcus again.

"I need the second report," I say when he answers.

"Already on it. Give me two days."

I hang up. Touch the silver thimble around my neck. My mother used to say that patterns reveal themselves if you're patient enough. That you can't see the whole design until you step back and look at every thread.

I'm looking now.

Two days later, Marcus calls. I meet him at the same office. Same burnt coffee smell. Same squeaking chair. This time the folder is thinner.

Bank statements. Hamza Gonzales's personal account. Eight months of deposits, August through March. The amounts vary—eight hundred one month, twelve hundred the next—but they're consistent. Regular. Every deposit marked *consulting fee*.

The dates match exactly with my therapy sessions.

"Shell company," Marcus says. "Took some digging, but it traces back to an LLC registered under Angelique's name. She was paying him the whole time."

I flip through the statements. My hands still aren't shaking. "I want my therapy records."

"Already requested them. HIPAA allows you to access your own files. They'll be ready tomorrow."

Tomorrow comes. I sit in my studio with two hundred pages of session notes spread across the floor. I read every word. Every fabricated symptom. Every invented episode. *Patient reports auditory hallucinations.* I never said that. *Patient exhibits signs of severe postpartum psychosis.* I was grieving, not psychotic. *Recommend limiting contact with family support systems.* He told Wyatt I was dangerous. That I needed space. That I might hurt myself.

He isolated me. Systematically. Professionally. For twelve hundred dollars a month.

I photograph every page. My phone's camera roll fills with evidence. I don't confront Hamza. Not yet. I save everything to three separate drives. Email copies to Marcus. Print hard copies and lock them in my studio safe.

Then I sit at my workbench and pick up my needle. The double-sided embroidery piece is almost finished. Roses on one side. Thorns on the other. I add one more detail to the thorn side—a small drop of red at the sharpest point.

Blood, or maybe a tear.

The pattern is revealing itself.

I just need to wait a little longer.