When she came out she was carrying a document box, and I knew that box, I recognized it instantly across the grainy little feed: copies of my will, my bank statements, my tax returns, the deeds, the papers for the family trust.

Everything a person would need to take me apart.

A patrol car reached the house before she could get her SUV out of the drive, and one of the officers called the number on file, which was mine.

“Mr.

Hayes, the woman here says she lives at this address.” “She doesn’t.” “She says she’s your fiancée.” “The wedding was canceled today.” They did not arrest her that night; the key made it complicated, exactly as Daniel had warned it might.

But the key did not explain the box of my most sensitive documents in her arms, and they took all of it down, and returned my papers, and told her not to come back.