That explained the code.

But not the address.

Then I remembered a photo.

Eleven days earlier, Rachel had convinced me to take a picture on the front steps after closing.

I had uploaded it to an old shared family photo album without thinking.

I zoomed in.

The closing folder in my hands had my new address clearly printed on the tab.

No private investigator.

No hacker.

Just two pieces of old digital access I had forgotten to remove.

I spent the next two hours changing passwords everywhere.

Bank accounts.

Cloud storage.

Streaming accounts.

Everything.

I even removed Mark from our old grocery-rewards profile.

If he was going to try to take my house, he certainly wasn’t keeping my fuel points.

Then my former mother-in-law called.

Diane and I had remained polite after the divorce.

She sounded uncomfortable.

“Clare, I need to ask you something awful.”