That told me everything.

Daniel Mercer wasn’t helping her.

He was using her.

Or she was using him.

Either way, the center of this was bigger than my wife’s affair, bigger than a fake death certificate, bigger than the man standing barefoot in my hallway.

I stepped closer to the phone.

“Daniel,” I said.

The line went silent.

Then the man said, “Mason.”

He spoke my name like he’d been expecting this conversation for years.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He chuckled once.

“You really don’t know?”