My stomach dropped. I could not draw a breath.

The manager pulled me into her small office and closed the blinds. She turned her monitor around so I could see it.

The account was empty.

Not low. Empty.

There was exactly 412 dollars left.

I stared at the screen. The numbers did not make sense. I asked her where all of it went. My voice did not even sound like my own.

The manager pointed to the screen and explained that massive wire transfers had been made to an external account over the last 4 years. Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. The one last night was for 15,000. It was all going to an account under the name Ashley Vance.

I asked who that was. The manager handed me a printed stack of the last 4 years of wire transfers. On the top page was the receiving bank’s address in Nashville, Tennessee.

Six hours away.

I walked out of the bank. I got into my rusted Impala. I did not call Martin. I did not scream. My jaw locked so hard I thought my teeth would crack. I just started driving.

Six hours of highway lines. Six hours of gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers went numb. I thought about the oatmeal dinners. I thought about the winter I did not buy a new coat so we could put an extra 500 dollars into the account.

I pulled into the Nashville neighborhood at 2 PM. It was not an apartment. It was a beautiful, newly renovated brick house. A tricycle sat on the front lawn. The kind of house I always wanted but Martin said we could not afford.

I parked across the street. My legs felt like lead as I walked up the driveway. I rang the bell.

A young woman opened the door. She could not have been older than 30.

She was holding a baby on her hip. A little boy with Martin’s exact nose.

But that was not what made the world stop spinning.

It was the wall behind her in the foyer.

There was a huge, silver-framed photo hanging on the wall.

It was our wedding photo.

My dress. His suit. The exact same pose. But my face was gone. Her face was photoshopped perfectly over mine.