Before we reached the altar, my three-year-old grandson squeezed my hand and whispered, “Grandpa, she was mean to Mommy.” Then he pointed toward my future wife and pulled a USB drive from his tiny pocket—one that would soon reveal the truth she had been hiding.

Monica knocked again.

Then tried the handle.

Locked.

“Victor.”

“This is humiliating.”

I almost laughed.

Humiliating.

Not frightening.

Not confusing.

Humiliating.

Her priority had not changed.

Image first.

Always.

I looked at Lucas.

“Do you want headphones?”

He nodded.

I found a pair in my suitcase.

Put on a cartoon.

Then returned to the laptop.

PART 12