I sat on the porch step and pulled my black wool coat tight over my knees.

Inside my dress collar, the steel chain felt heavy against my collarbone.

I took the copy of the mortgage application out of my coat pocket and unfolded it in the late afternoon light.

Right below the forged signature, printed in clean capital letters, were my Social Security number and my clinic payroll address.

Julian had known every line of my personal life, and he had used it to save his own skin.

I folded the paper back into four neat squares and held it flat against my palm while the sun went down behind the oak trees.