A month after Ethan went to prison, I sold the apartment.
The buyers were newlyweds. The young woman ran her hand along the balcony railing.
"The light in here is beautiful."
I nodded.
I signed the papers, handed over the keys, and watched the money arrive in my account.
Walking out of the real estate agency, my phone rang.
A local number.
"Ms. Cole? This is a reporter with The Whitmore Tribune. I'd like to speak with you about the marriage fraud case —"
"I'm not giving interviews. I'm sorry."
I hung up and blocked the number.
I moved into a temporary rental. South-facing. About four hundred square feet.
The first night, I couldn't sleep.
At three in the morning, I got up and started sorting through things.
I pulled a cardboard box out from under the bed. It held five years of
