The Wedding Photo That Changed Everything

It was one of those slow Dallas evenings where nothing special is supposed to happen. The sun had already slipped behind the neat line of suburban houses across the street, leaving my little brick home in that soft blue hour glow. I had a pot of chicken soup cooling on the stove, my grading piled in a neat stack on the kitchen table out of habit, even though I’d retired from teaching the year before.

My phone buzzed across the counter, lighting up with an unfamiliar number. For a second I almost let it go to voicemail. At fifty-eight, a widow with a modest teacher’s pension and a quiet life, I didn’t get many urgent calls anymore. But something in my gut told me to pick up.

“Hello?” I said, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I reached for the dish towel.

“Ma’am, it’s Rick Brennan. David and Jessica’s wedding photographer.”

His voice did not match the easy, charming professional I remembered from six months ago. It was tighter now, strained, like every word had been dragged over gravel before it reached me.

“Oh. Hello, Rick. Is everything okay?” I asked.

There was a pause, just long enough for my heart to start beating faster.

“Ma’am, I found something in the photos. Something you need to see. Can you come to my studio tonight?”

The words themselves were calm, but underneath them was a current of urgency that made my skin prickle. Something about the way he said it—the careful pause before “something,” the deliberate vagueness—told me this wasn’t about a billing issue or a request for a testimonial.

“What kind of something?” I pressed.

“I’d rather show you in person. Please, Mrs. Thompson. It’s important. And…” He hesitated. “Don’t mention this to David yet. You should see it first.”

That last part sent a chill straight through me. Why wouldn’t I tell my own son about his wedding photos? What could possibly be in those pictures that required this level of secrecy?

I hung up the phone, feeling like someone had just thrown ice water down my spine. My hands were steady enough to place the phone on the counter, but my knees went weak, and I had to reach for the back of a chair to keep myself upright.

I’d been a widow for fifteen years. I had survived hospital waiting rooms, a folded American flag handed to me at a graveside, and long nights wondering how on earth I would raise a grieving twelve-year-old boy into a whole man. I thought I knew what fear felt like—the sharp, immediate kind that comes with emergency room visits and late-night phone calls from the school principal.

But this was different. This was a creeping, gnawing dread that slithered up from somewhere behind my ribs and whispered that whatever I was about to learn would not just be painful. It would be corrective. It would rewrite the story of a day I’d been replaying like a warm memory every night before bed, the day I thought I’d finally done right by my son.

Let me take you back to how this nightmare began, to the day six months ago when I thought I was watching my only son, David, marry the love of his life.

The memory rose in my mind so vividly it was like my kitchen floor had turned into the polished marble of the Rosewood Country Club. I could almost smell the expensive floral arrangements again, that mix of white roses and eucalyptus that made the entire ballroom feel like a high-end garden someone had airlifted in from California.

I had sat in the second row, clutching the small lace handkerchief my own mother had given me on my wedding day, its edges yellowed with age but the embroidery still perfect. My chair felt slightly too small for the enormity of the moment, and I remember thinking that was somehow appropriate—like I was trying to fit my whole life as David’s mother into one afternoon and it couldn’t quite be contained.

The string quartet played something elegant I couldn’t name, and the Texas light spilled through the tall windows in soft gold beams that made everything look like it had been dipped in honey. The guests murmured in that particular way people do at weddings, voices low and reverent, as if love itself might be frightened away by too much noise.

David stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored navy suit, his sandy hair a little too long at the back because he’d never quite mastered the art of planning haircuts around major life events. He looked both grown and achingly young, like the same boy who once walked into my classroom after school just to ride home with me, swinging his backpack and telling me about his day in that rapid-fire way kids do when they think you have all the time in the world.

When the doors opened and Jessica appeared on her father’s arm, the entire room leaned in collectively, breath held. She really did look like a picture from a bridal magazine: blonde hair in soft waves that caught the light, veil floating behind her like something out of a fairy tale, the kind of fitted white gown that probably cost more than my car. Her smile was radiant, practiced, perfect.

She smiled at David, and he smiled back with a softness I had waited decades to see on his face—the kind of unguarded joy that makes a mother’s heart both soar and break a little, because you realize your child doesn’t need you quite the same way anymore.

In that moment, I remember thinking, This is it, Margaret. You did it. You got him here. You got him to happy.

After his father died, I’d spent so many nights lying awake wondering if I was enough, if one parent could possibly give a child everything they needed to grow up whole. I’d watched David struggle through his teenage years with a kind of quiet sadness that never quite left his eyes, even when he was laughing. I’d worried that he’d never trust anyone enough to let them in, that grief had taught him too young that people leave.

But there he was, standing at an altar, choosing love anyway. Choosing Jessica.

Jessica Miller seemed perfect on paper: twenty-nine years old, blonde, bubbly, with a laugh that filled rooms and a way of making everyone around her feel like they were the most important person in the world. She worked in marketing, or so she said, and she seemed genuinely head over heels for my thirty-two-year-old son.

As a fifty-eight-year-old widow who’d raised David alone after his father died when he was twelve, I was just grateful to see him happy. Grateful that he’d found someone who seemed to love him the way he deserved to be loved.

The wedding had been a lavish affair at the Rosewood Country Club, Jessica’s family sparing absolutely no expense. Three hundred guests filled the ballroom, most of them from Jessica’s side—her large extended family, her father’s business associates, distant cousins I’d never heard of before. A ten-course dinner with wine pairings. An open bar that probably cost more than my annual pension. And Rick Brennan as the photographer, supposedly the most sought-after wedding photographer in Dallas, with a waiting list that stretched two years.

I remembered thinking how lucky David was to have in-laws who could afford such extravagance. My teacher’s pension certainly couldn’t have covered anything close to this level of luxury. The Miller family had money, the kind of old Texas oil money that meant they didn’t just have wealth—they had presence.

But now, staring at Rick’s business card in my trembling hand as I gathered my purse to drive to his studio, I realized that “luck” might have been the wrong word entirely.

Rick Brennan’s studio was located in the arts district, a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls that still smelled faintly of paint and coffee. When I arrived at 7:00 p.m. sharp, the parking lot was nearly empty, just a few scattered cars that probably belonged to other artists working late in neighboring studios.

Inside, Rick was waiting behind his desk, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually perfect beard was unkempt, like he’d been running his hands through it obsessively. The studio, which I remembered being bright and cheerful during our initial consultation, felt dim and oppressive now, the overhead lights doing little to chase away the shadows gathering in the corners.

“Mrs. Thompson, thank you for coming,” he said, standing quickly. His hands shook slightly as he gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I’ve been agonizing over whether to call you for weeks. I kept telling myself maybe I was seeing things that weren’t there, maybe I was paranoid. But I can’t ignore this anymore.”

“What did you find?” I asked, cutting straight to the point.

After twenty-five years teaching high school, I’d learned to spot trouble brewing from miles away. I’d seen that particular combination of fear and determination in a person’s eyes before—usually right before they confessed to something that would change everything.

Rick pulled out a thick folder and set it on the desk between us with the kind of careful deliberation people use when handling something that might explode.

“I was organizing the wedding photos for my portfolio when I noticed something odd in a few shots. Background details that didn’t quite make sense. So I started looking more carefully, going through every single frame I’d taken that day.” He paused, running his hand through his hair again. “Mrs. Thompson, I think your daughter-in-law was having an affair during the wedding reception. And I think it’s connected to something much worse.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways. I gripped the arms of my chair, my knuckles going white.

“That’s impossible. Jessica was with David the entire time. I watched them. They were together.”

“Not the entire time,” Rick said quietly, his voice heavy with something that sounded like regret.

He opened the folder and pulled out the first photograph with hands that shook just enough for me to notice.

“This was taken at 9:47 p.m., during the father-daughter dance.”

I studied the image, my teacher brain automatically cataloging details the way I used to scan a classroom for signs of trouble. It showed Jessica in her stunning white gown, but she wasn’t on the dance floor with her father as she should have been. Instead, she was near the service entrance to the kitchen, partially hidden behind a decorative column draped in ivory silk.

She was embracing a man in a dark suit, their bodies pressed together in a way that was far too intimate for casual conversation. The man definitely wasn’t David, who I could clearly see on the dance floor in the background, looking around with an expression that made my heart crack—confusion mixed with worry, the look of a man who couldn’t find his new wife on what should have been the happiest night of his life.

“Who is that man?” I whispered, though part of me already knew I wouldn’t like the answer.

“That’s what took me weeks to figure out,” Rick said grimly. “His name is Marcus Cole. He’s Jessica’s cousin, but more importantly, he’s also her secret business partner. And Mrs. Thompson, I think they’re running a con.”

“Cousin?” I repeated, staring at the photograph that was quickly rewriting my understanding of my son’s wedding day. “Marcus… I remember David mentioning that Jessica’s cousin Marcus would be at the wedding. He seemed like a nice young man when I met him briefly at the reception. Polite. Well-dressed. He made a toast about how Jessica had always been the smart one in the family.”

Rick pulled out another photo, this one showing Marcus and Jessica in what appeared to be an intense conversation near the bar, their heads bent close together, Jessica’s hand on his arm in a gesture that looked far too familiar.

“That’s the thing, Mrs. Thompson. Marcus isn’t just family. He and Jessica are business partners, something David doesn’t know about.”

He handed me a printout from the Texas Secretary of State website, the official business registry that I’d only ever encountered when filing paperwork for the teachers’ union. The document showed a business entity called Cole and Miller Financial Consulting, LLC, registered in 2022.

“They’ve been partners for three years, but Jessica has kept this completely hidden from David,” Rick continued. “She’s been running a financial consulting business with her cousin since before she even met your son.”

I studied the document, feeling that familiar teacher brain kick in, the part of me that could spot a forged hall pass from across the classroom or tell when a student was lying about why they hadn’t turned in their homework. Jessica Miller and Marcus Cole had indeed registered their business three years ago, the same year she’d started dating David according to the timeline I could piece together.

“So Jessica has been running a business with her cousin for three years, and David has no idea?” I asked, though even as the words left my mouth, several unpleasant possibilities were forming in my mind like storm clouds gathering on a summer afternoon. “Why would she keep this secret from her husband? What kind of business requires that level of deception?”

“Take a look at these,” Rick said, spreading out a series of photos across his desk like a detective laying out evidence at a crime scene.

The timeline he’d constructed was damning, each photograph stamped with a precise time that told a story I didn’t want to believe.

9:47 p.m.: Jessica embracing Marcus near the kitchen entrance while her father danced alone, confused.

10:15 p.m.: Jessica slipping out the side door while David was making his thank-you speech to the guests.

10:23 p.m.: Marcus leaving through the same door, checking over his shoulder.

10:45 p.m.: Jessica returning slightly disheveled, her hair not quite as perfect as it had been, claiming she’d needed fresh air.

“I remember that,” I said slowly, the memory suddenly sharp and painful. “David was looking for her during his speech. He kept pausing, glancing toward the door. When she came back, she said she’d felt faint and needed air. Said the excitement had gotten to her.”

“For twenty-two minutes,” Rick said, raising an eyebrow. “And Mrs. Thompson, there’s more. Much more.”

He pulled out his laptop and opened a folder labeled “Security Footage” in bold letters. The screen showed multiple angles of the parking lot outside the country club, the kind of comprehensive coverage that expensive venues maintain for liability purposes.

“The club’s security system backs up to the cloud. I have contacts there who helped me access the footage,” he explained, and I didn’t ask how he’d managed that. Some questions are better left unasked.

He clicked play on a video timestamped 10:17 p.m.

I watched in growing horror as Jessica emerged from the side entrance and walked quickly toward a dark sedan parked in the far corner of the lot, away from the main entrance where valets were still parking guest vehicles. Her movements were purposeful, practiced, like someone who knew exactly where they were going.

Marcus was already waiting by the car, leaning against the driver’s side door. They embraced again, more passionately this time, before getting into the vehicle together. The car rocked slightly—I turned away, not wanting to see more.

“Twenty-two minutes later,” Rick said quietly, fast-forwarding the footage, “they returned separately. She came in through the side entrance. He went around to the front, like he’d been outside smoking the whole time.”

I sank back in my chair, feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach by one of those linebackers I used to send to the principal’s office. The air felt thin, like I was breathing at high altitude.

Jessica hadn’t just cheated on David at their own wedding. She’d done it with her own cousin—cousin—who was also her secret business partner, a man David knew nothing about beyond a brief introduction and a wedding toast.

“Rick, why are you showing me this instead of going directly to David?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer. You don’t keep secrets this big for weeks without a reason.

He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the photos spread across his desk like tarot cards predicting disaster.

“Because there’s something else, Mrs. Thompson. Something that makes this more complicated than just an affair or even just financial deception.”

“More complicated how?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Instead of answering directly, Rick pulled out another folder, this one significantly thicker than the first. It was labeled “Financial Records” in the same bold letters, but these words carried more weight somehow.

My teaching background might have prepared me to spot teenage troublemakers and identify plagiarized essays, but nothing had prepared me for what I was about to learn about systematic financial fraud.

“Cole and Miller Financial Consulting specializes in investment management for elderly clients,” Rick said carefully, choosing his words with the precision of someone who’d rehearsed this speech. “Specifically widows and widowers with substantial assets. People who’ve recently lost a spouse and might not be thinking clearly about financial decisions.”

The pieces were clicking together with sickening clarity, like a jigsaw puzzle revealing a picture you’d never wanted to see.

“How do you know all this?” I asked Rick, though I was beginning to suspect the answer wouldn’t be comforting.

“Because my mother was one of their clients,” he said quietly, his voice breaking slightly on the word “mother.” “She died eight months ago, and when I was settling her estate, I discovered some irregularities. Irregularities that led me down a rabbit hole I’m still trying to climb out of.”

Rick opened his laptop again and pulled up a series of bank statements, transaction records, and investment summaries that made my head spin with their complexity.

“My mother, Eleanor Brennan, was seventy-four and had early-stage dementia when someone referred her to Cole and Miller Financial Consulting about eighteen months ago. They convinced her to transfer her investments to their management, promised her guaranteed returns, told her she could finally take that trip to Ireland she’d always dreamed about.”

“How much?” I asked, though I was already dreading the answer.

“Four hundred fifty thousand dollars. Her entire life savings. Everything my father had worked for, everything she’d saved during forty years of nursing. Gone.”

I felt my mouth go dry. Four hundred fifty thousand dollars was more money than I’d make in the next decade, maybe the rest of my life.

“What happened to it?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for months. The official records show various high-risk investments that supposedly failed—emerging market funds, cryptocurrency ventures, startup companies that folded. But when I hired a forensic accountant out of my own pocket, we found that most of those investments never existed. They were just names on paper, fictional companies with fake prospectuses.”

Rick pulled out a thick folder filled with financial documents, highlighted sections, and handwritten notes that showed months of obsessive investigation.

“Mrs. Thompson, I believe your daughter-in-law and Marcus Cole are running an elaborate con targeting elderly people. They find vulnerable seniors—people who’ve recently lost a spouse, people who are showing early signs of cognitive decline, people who are lonely and desperate for someone to care about them—and they systematically drain their accounts. They’re not just stealing money. They’re stealing hope, security, and dignity from people who’ve spent their entire lives building those things.”

“But Jessica’s only twenty-nine,” I protested weakly. “How would she even know how to do something like that? How would she have the connections, the knowledge?”

“She’s not working alone,” Rick said grimly. “We think there’s a larger network involved, possibly spanning multiple states. Jessica and Marcus handle the client relationships—they’re young, attractive, trustworthy-looking. They build emotional connections, become like family to these elderly victims. But someone else is managing the paperwork, moving the money through shell companies, creating the fake investment records. This is sophisticated, organized, and it’s been running for years.”

I stared at the wedding photos again, seeing them in an entirely new light. What I’d thought was a celebration of love was actually something far more sinister.

“So the affair might not even be romantic,” I said, the realization hitting me like a slap. “They could have been coordinating business during the reception, planning their next target, discussing how to move money. The wedding was just…”

“A networking event,” Rick finished. “A way to meet new potential victims in a setting where everyone’s guard is down, where people are feeling emotional and generous, where talking about family and finances feels natural.”

“Or both,” I added, feeling nauseous. “It could be both. An affair and a business meeting. Maybe they get off on the deception itself.”

“Rick, why haven’t you gone to the police with this?” I asked, though I could already guess part of the answer.

“I have. Detective Sarah Martinez with the Dallas Police Department is building a case, but she needs more evidence. The financial trail is deliberately complex, designed to be difficult to follow. And the victims…” He paused, his expression darkening. “Many of them are elderly people with memory issues, cognitive decline, early dementia. They’re not ideal witnesses in court. Defense attorneys would tear them apart on the stand, suggest they simply made poor investment decisions and are now looking for someone to blame.”

“What about your mother? Can’t you prove fraud in her case specifically?”

Rick’s expression darkened further, and I saw something that looked like barely contained rage flicker across his face.

“She’s dead, Mrs. Thompson. And according to the coroner, she died of natural causes—heart failure brought on by stress and anxiety. But I can’t help wondering what kind of stress a sweet old lady would be under if she discovered her life savings had been stolen, if she realized she’d trusted the wrong people, if she knew she’d have to spend her final years in poverty instead of the comfortable retirement she’d planned.”

The implication hung in the air between us like a toxic cloud. Jessica wasn’t just a cheating wife. She wasn’t just running a financial scam. She might be involved in crimes that had literally scared an elderly woman to death, that had turned someone’s final months into a nightmare of fear and regret.

“What do you need from me?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me.

“Information about David’s finances. About your finances. I need to know if Jessica has access to any significant accounts, if she’s pressured David into making investments, if she’s mentioned elderly relatives or friends who might need financial advice. Mrs. Thompson, I think you need to check your own accounts immediately. I think you and David might be their next targets.”

I thought about the past year, replaying conversations and interactions with Jessica through this new, horrifying lens. All those Sunday dinners where she’d asked about my retirement. The times she’d offered to review my investment portfolio, claiming she had connections who could get me better returns than my conservative mutual funds were providing.

“She’s been very interested in my retirement accounts,” I said slowly, the memories taking on a sinister tone. “She’s offered several times to review my investments, to introduce me to someone who could help me maximize my returns. She said she had connections to investment advisers who specialized in helping educators get more out of their pensions.”

Rick leaned forward, his eyes intense.

“Did you let her? Did you give her any account information, any statements, anything she could use?”

“No. I’ve been managing my own finances since my husband died fifteen years ago. I told her I was happy with my current arrangements, that I preferred to keep things simple.” I paused, another memory surfacing. “But David has been pressuring me to reconsider. He says Jessica is just trying to help family, that I’m being stubborn for no reason, that I should at least listen to what she has to say. He’s been unusually persistent about it over the past few months.”

“Mrs. Thompson,” Rick said carefully, and I could hear the weight of what he was about to say, “I think you and David are their next targets. I think that’s why she married him. Not for love, not for companionship, but for access. Access to you, to your retirement savings, to your home equity, to everything you’ve spent your life building. You’re exactly the kind of victim they target—a widow, living alone, with a substantial nest egg and a trusting son who would vouch for his wife’s integrity.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Jessica hadn’t fallen in love with my son. She’d researched him, selected him, courted him specifically because he was the key to reaching me. Every smile, every laugh, every intimate moment they’d shared—it had all been part of an elaborate con.

“Are you sure?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The evidence was overwhelming.

“Sure enough that I’ve been losing sleep for weeks,” Rick replied. “Mrs. Thompson, can I ask you some more personal questions? I need to understand the full scope of what they might be planning.”

I nodded, though every instinct was telling me I wouldn’t like where this was heading.

“Do you own your home outright?”

“Yes. Paid it off five years ago with my husband’s life insurance money.”

“Significant retirement savings? Between your teacher’s pension, your husband’s life insurance, and your 401(k)?”

“Yes. About seven hundred thousand dollars total, if I had to estimate.”

Rick made notes on a legal pad, his pen moving quickly.

“Any investments or assets that Jessica would know about specifically?”

I thought carefully about every conversation I’d had with Jessica over the past year, every family dinner where finances had come up naturally in the course of conversation.

“David mentioned my portfolio a few times when Jessica was around. He’s always been proud that his schoolteacher mother managed to build a comfortable nest egg. He likes to tell people how I put him through college without taking out loans, how I paid off my house early, how I’ve been smart with money. He means it as a compliment, showing off his mom.” I felt tears prick my eyes. “He had no idea he was painting a target on my back.”

“Have they invited you to any financial seminars?” Rick asked. “Introduced you to any investment advisors? Suggested any changes to your estate planning?”

“Actually, yes,” I said, another memory flooding back with crystal clarity.

“Two months ago, Jessica invited me to something she called a retirement security workshop for educators. Said it was specifically designed for teachers and would show me how to maximize my pension benefits, how to take advantage of tax strategies most educators don’t know about. She was very enthusiastic, said several of her clients had attended and learned valuable information.”

“Did you go?”

“No. I had a parent-teacher conference that night that I couldn’t reschedule, but Jessica seemed genuinely disappointed when I canceled.” I paused, remembering her reaction now in this new context. “She rescheduled it twice, trying to find a time I could attend. She sent me reminder texts, even offered to pick me up and drive me there herself. At the time I thought she was just being thoughtful. Now I realize she was being persistent because I was resisting the trap.”

Rick and I looked at each other across the desk, both understanding the full implications.

If Jessica was part of a larger financial fraud operation, a “retirement security workshop” would be the perfect hunting ground for elderly targets with substantial assets. A room full of retired teachers, all with pensions and 401(k)s, all trusting by nature because they’d spent careers working with children.

“Rick, I need to see more of these photos. All of them. Every single one.”

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the largest folder.

“Mrs. Thompson, some of these are difficult to look at. If David is truly innocent in all this—and I believe he is—these images will destroy him. They’ll rewrite every memory he has of what should have been the happiest day of his life.”

“If David is innocent, then he deserves to know what kind of woman he married before she destroys him financially and emotionally,” I said firmly. I straightened my shoulders, feeling that old teacher authority kick in. “And if we’re going to stop her, if we’re going to protect other victims and bring her to justice, I need to understand everything. Show me everything, Rick.”

He opened the largest folder yet, and what I saw over the next forty-five minutes painted a picture of a wedding reception that was actually an elaborate, calculated business meeting disguised as a celebration.

Jessica and Marcus weren’t just stealing moments for romantic encounters or coordinating business details. They were conducting systematic meetings with various guests throughout the evening, working the room like seasoned professionals, each conversation serving a specific purpose.

“Who is this man?” I asked, pointing to a photo of Jessica in deep conversation with an elderly gentleman by the bar. She had her hand on his arm, was leaning in close, her expression one of concern and interest.

“Herbert Williams, eighty-three years old. He attended the wedding as Jessica’s ‘honorary grandfather’—no actual blood relation. According to public records, he invested his Social Security savings with Cole and Miller Financial six weeks after the wedding. Forty-seven thousand dollars, which was every penny he had saved.”

“And this woman?” I pointed to another photo showing Jessica and Marcus flanking an elderly lady near the dessert table.

“Patricia Dean, seventy-nine, Marcus’s aunt by marriage. She transferred her late husband’s pension to their management two weeks after meeting them at your son’s reception. One hundred and twelve thousand dollars.”

The pattern continued, photo after photo, revealing the true nature of David’s wedding reception. I felt physically sick.

“They used David’s wedding as a networking event,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “They invited vulnerable elderly people to what should have been a celebration of love, and they used it to find new victims.”

“It appears so, Mrs. Thompson. I’ve identified at least twelve people at that reception who became clients of Cole and Miller Financial within two months of the wedding. The total assets they’ve managed to access so far from just that one event exceed two million dollars. Two million dollars stolen from elderly people who thought they were attending a joyful celebration.”

I thought about all those guests I’d met that night, all the sweet older people who’d congratulated me on raising such a fine son, who’d told me how lucky I was to have such a lovely daughter-in-law. They’d all been marked as prey.

“What about the people who didn’t invest?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Some of them are harder to track, but three elderly guests from that wedding have died in the past six months. All from what the coroner ruled as stress-related conditions—heart attacks, strokes, sudden declines that families attributed to old age. All three had made significant investments with Jessica and Marcus in the weeks before their deaths.”

The room was spinning. I gripped the edge of Rick’s desk to steady myself.

My son’s wedding hadn’t been a celebration. It had been a carefully orchestrated crime scene. And David, my sweet, trusting, kind-hearted son, had unknowingly provided the perfect cover for it all. He’d smiled for photos while his bride marked victims. He’d made toasts while people who trusted him were being sized up for fraud. He’d danced with his new wife while she was planning how to destroy lives.

“Rick, we have to tell David tonight,” I said, standing up with sudden determination. “We have to warn him, protect him, stop this before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Mrs. Thompson, wait.”

Rick grabbed my arm gently as I started toward the door, his grip firm but not harsh.

“There’s one more thing you need to know before we involve David. Something that makes this even more dangerous than you realize.”

“What now?” I demanded, though I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. “What else could there possibly be?”

“I think Jessica knows I’ve been investigating,” he said quietly. “I think she knows we’re onto her, and I think she’s about to make her move on you.”