PART 1 — THE BACKPACK BEHIND THE COUCH

Two days before my wedding, I locked myself inside my fiancé’s childhood bathroom and called the police.

“Alison?” Nathan called from the hallway. “Who are you talking to?”

I covered my mouth with one hand and pressed the phone tightly against my ear.

The emergency dispatcher spoke calmly.

“Remain where you are. Officers are on their way.”

The doorknob moved.

“Why is the door locked?” Nathan demanded.

I looked down at the prescription bottle in my lap.

It belonged to his aunt Margaret.

So did the driver’s license, mobile phone, credit cards, and signed blank checks I had just discovered inside a dusty pink backpack hidden behind the old couch in Nathan’s bedroom.

Margaret had been missing for several hours.

Nathan was the last person known to have been with her.

“I’m speaking with Celia,” I called through the door.

Celia was our wedding planner.

Nathan paused.

“Why would you lock yourself in the bathroom to discuss flowers?”

Two days earlier, I would have laughed and opened the door.

Two days earlier, I still believed I knew the man I was about to marry.

I met Nathan after nearly deleting the dating app where we connected. Unlike the men who treated dates like interviews, he asked questions and listened carefully to my answers.

On our first date, we spoke for three hours.

A month later, he found an old copy of the book my father had read to me when I was young.

“You remembered?” I asked.

“I remember the things that matter to you,” he said.

No one had ever made me feel so understood.

A year later, he proposed, and I accepted before he finished asking.

At our engagement dinner, I met his aunt Margaret. She was a quiet widow who lived in a residence that helped with meals and medication, although she still handled her own finances.

During dinner, she searched her pockets.

“My glasses are missing.”

Nathan’s mother, Kristen, sighed.

“You probably left them at home.”

“I know I brought them.”

Nathan reached into Margaret’s open purse and produced the glasses.

“Here they are.”

Margaret smiled, but her fingers tightened around the frames.

“This is why Aunt Margaret needs me,” Nathan joked.

Later, while we stood near the coat rack, Margaret touched my arm.

“Did Nathan tell you about the paperwork?”

“The wedding contracts?”

“No. The bank documents.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Nathan appeared.

“Don’t let her involve you in one of her stories,” he said lightly.

On our drive home, he explained that Margaret became anxious about money and that he helped her manage her bills.

“She has good days and bad days,” he said.

Nathan always sounded reasonable.

Two days before the wedding, we went to Kristen’s house to collect childhood photographs for the reception.

Kristen complained that Margaret had called repeatedly about a misplaced bill.

“She becomes frightened,” Nathan said. “I handle it.”

When I asked where Margaret was, he said he had taken her to the bank that morning.

“What did she need?”

“Help. It’s already handled.”

Then he directed me to his old bedroom while he searched the attic.

My phone slipped behind the couch. When I pulled it away from the wall, I found the dusty backpack.

Margaret’s license and credit cards were inside. Four numbers had been taped onto the back of one card.

Beneath them were three signed blank checks and a note in Nathan’s handwriting:

For bills.

At the bottom of the bag, I found a letter.

Nathan, please return my cards. I need to pay for my room. I don’t want to withdraw any more money. Margaret.

Then I found her medicine.

The label instructed her to take it at noon, but the bottle was still full.

I called her number.

The phone inside the backpack began ringing.

My concern became fear.

I contacted her residence. A staff member confirmed that Nathan had signed Margaret out that morning and had never returned her.

“Is she with you?” the woman asked.

“No.”

“Then contact the authorities immediately.”

I took the note and medicine into the bathroom and called for help.

Before unlocking the door, I photographed everything, returned the backpack to its hiding place, and sent Celia a message.

Freeze every unpaid wedding expense. Do not tell Nathan.

Her answer came quickly.

I trust you. Everything is stopped.

When I opened the door, Nathan stood beside the couch, studying my face.

“You look pale.”

“It’s wedding stress.”

He reached toward my purse.

“I’ll carry that.”

I stepped away.

“I can manage my own bag.”

His hand fell.

I looked directly at him.

“Where is Margaret?”

“She’s at home.”

“Are you certain?”

His hesitation lasted less than a second.

Then someone knocked loudly downstairs.

Kristen called from the kitchen.

“Nathan, there are police officers at the door.”

His eyes hardened.

“What did you do?”

I walked past him without answering.

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