The Other Mrs. Carter Reported Him Missing Too

The sweltering heat of the asphalt hit my face the second we pushed out of the motel room.

"Stop walking," I demanded.

I lunged forward and clamped my hand over Nina's shoulder, spinning her around before she could reach the driver's side of her car.

"Did you sign it?" I shouted, my voice echoing off the cheap stucco walls of the motel exterior. "The five-million-dollar life insurance policy he finalized last month? Are you splitting the payout when he miraculously turns up dead in Mexico?"

Marcus shoved his thick arm between us. He broke my grip with a single, forceful swipe.

"Back up," Marcus warned. He planted his boots wide, shielding his sister from me.

Nina stumbled against the side of a rusted pickup truck. She clutched Lily to her chest, her knuckles turning white. Tears spilled over her mascara-stained cheeks, leaving dark tracks down her pale face.

"I don't know anything about an insurance policy!" Nina cried. "He told me he was setting up a college trust fund for Lily. He made me sign a stack of legal papers two weeks ago. He said it was just standard banking forms."

"You signed blind documents?" I asked, stepping toward her again. "Do you realize what he is doing? He's draining my company to fund a fake life, and now he is setting up a massive payout. If he fakes his death, you are the one holding the bag. The police will look at the beneficiary."

"He'd never do that to us," Nina stammered. She kissed the top of Lily's head, rocking the fussy toddler. "He loves this little girl. He bought her a pony for her second birthday. He's a good father."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "He bought that pony with the money I saved for my own IVF treatments. He's a parasite, Nina. He attaches himself to whoever can fund his next scheme."

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. He dragged his heavy hand down his jawline, his expression darkening as the reality of the situation settled over him.

"He played you, Nina," Marcus muttered. "He played both of you."

"He didn't play me," I snapped, glaring at the towering mechanic. "He stole from me. And I'm getting every single cent back."

"How?" Nina asked, her voice trembling. "He's gone. The motel room is empty. He has a head start."

"Watch me," I promised.

I pulled my cell phone from my leather purse and unlocked the screen, holding it up for them to see.

"I'm calling my legal team at dawn," I said, my tone dead flat. "I'm freezing the startup capital. I'll lock every bank account attached to his social security number. I'm calling David, the corporate accountant, and forcing a full audit of the Series A funds. By noon tomorrow, Evan won't be able to buy a single cup of coffee."

Nina whimpered. She leaned heavily against the truck door. "The joint account. My rent money is in there. My car payment is due on Friday."

"Then you better find a job," I replied.

Marcus stepped closer, towering over me. The smell of motor oil and stale sweat clung to his faded blue jumpsuit.

"Listen to me," Marcus said, keeping his voice low and dangerous. "If you freeze those accounts, the feds will audit everything. They'll look at Nina. She's on paper as his wife. They'll charge her as an accomplice to wire fraud."

"She should have thought of that before she married a married man," I shot back.

"She didn't know!" Marcus roared, his temper finally snapping. The veins in his thick neck bulged against his collar. "He showed her fake divorce papers. He bought her a diamond ring. He gave her a kid. Do not act like you are the only victim here."

I held my ground, refusing to flinch under his imposing shadow. "That's not my problem."

"Make it your problem," Marcus countered. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "You bring in the lawyers, this gets tied up in court for months. Evan disappears for good. He pays off the right people and vanishes across the border. You want your money back? You want answers? Let me handle it."

I lowered my phone, narrowing my eyes. "How exactly are you going to find him?"

"I run a salvage yard on the east side," Marcus explained. "I know people who track skip tracers. Guys who monitor off-the-books flights and forge passports. People the police don't talk to."

"Criminals," I clarified.

"Results," Marcus corrected. "Lawyers send strongly worded letters. My guys kick down doors. We find out exactly what flight he got on, who he paid, and where he landed."

"And what do you want in return?" I asked