Chapter 15
I'm awake — barely. Coffee in hand, sitting at the kitchen table. My table now. Alone.
"Nina?"
"I'm here."
Her voice is thin. Young-sounding — she might be younger than me, or she might just be scared. Fear takes years off your voice.
"I checked the bank statements. Like you said."
"And?"
"Three transfers. April: $300. May: $600. June: $1,200. All to an account under the name 'B. Ellison.'" Her voice cracks. "That's my friend. That's Brooke."
$2,100 in three months. The same escalation curve. $300, $600, $1,200. Next month would be $2,000 or more. Then a big one — three, five, eight thousand. She's in the early phase. The testing-the-boundary phase.
"Sadie. Listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"You're at $2,100. I was at $23,000 by the time I caught it. The difference between you and me is that you're catching it now. Four months earlier than I did."
She's crying. I can hear it — the wet breath, the swallowed sound. I've heard this cry from patients' families. The cry of someone absorbing information they don't want.
"Your husband," I say. "Has he been going to her apartment?"
"He says he fixed her door. And the garbage disposal. And he assembled a bookshelf. She just moved in — she doesn't have anyone else—"
"She's a registered nurse. She can hire a handyman. She can afford it — she's spending YOUR money."
"But how — I mean, she doesn't seem—"
"She never does. That's the point. She presents as someone who needs help. She's beautiful and vulnerable and she makes your husband feel like a hero. She's been doing this to other women before you and she'll do it after you if you don't stop it now."
Silence. Twelve seconds.
"You said — in your text — she slept with your husband."
"Yes."
"Do you think she's—"
"I don't know. But the pattern says yes. The two-hour 'repairs' are how it starts. At some point the help becomes physical. With me it happened in month three."
She's quiet for a long time. I let her be quiet. I drink my coffee. Count the sips. Seven.
"What do I DO?" she asks finally.
"What I told you before. Get a lawyer. Document everything. Screenshots of the transfers, his phone if you can access it, her schedule versus his—"
"I'm a photographer. I could—" She stops. "I photograph EVERYTHING. I have photos of her at our house. Timestamps. I have photos of the food she brings over."
"Keep all of them. Metadata has timestamps and locations. A lawyer will want that."
"Do I confront him?"
"Not yet. Data first. You need to know the full scope before you show your hand. If you confront too early, they both go into damage control and you lose evidence."
"Okay." She breathes. In, out. In, out. I count four cycles. "Okay. I can do this."
"Sadie?"
"Yeah?"
"Is your name really Sadie or did Brooke call you something else?"
A pause. "What do you mean?"
"In Connecticut she went by Brooke Ellison. But I have reason to believe she uses different names in different cities. When you met her — did she introduce herself as Brooke?"
"No. She introduced herself as Tara. Tara Jensen."
Tara. A different name. Same woman. Same system.
"Okay," I say. "That's important. She's using an alias in your city. Which means she's deliberately hiding her trail."
"Oh god."
"Get the lawyer. This week. Don't wait."
"I will. Thank you, Nina. I don't — I don't even know you and you're—"
"I'm the woman who was where you are six months ago. The only difference is nobody warned me. You're getting a warning."
We hang up. I sit at the table for eight minutes.
Tara Jensen. In my outline — the pattern list — I should add the name changes. She moves. She renames. She befriends. She exploits. She leaves. She starts again.
How many times? How many cities? How many husbands?
I open my phone. I search "Tara Jensen Columbus Ohio" on Facebook. Nothing obvious — there are several. I search "Brooke Ellison" — her old Connecticut profile is still up but hasn't been active since she moved.
I screenshot everything. The inactive profile. The lack of recent posts. The gap. She went dark online in Connecticut and emerged as Tara in Ohio.
I add it to the DIVORCE folder. Under a new sub-folder: brOOKE - PATTERN EVIDENCE.
I don't know what I'll do with this. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But the data exists now. It's documented.
At 5:30 I start getting ready for work. Scrubs. Badge. Lunch packed. The routine.
My phone buzzes. Sadie: I looked at the Venmo. She paid someone for "drinks!" two days after my husband sent her $600. Just like you said.
I type back: Screenshot it. Save everything.
Then I put the phone in my bag and I drive to work. Fourteen streetlights. Six stop signs. Badge in.
The ER waits. It always waits. It doesn't care about Brooke or Tara or whatever name she uses next. It just needs me to count pills and hang bags and keep people alive.
I badge in at 6:52. Eight minutes early.
Deborah sees me. "You look focused tonight."
"I'm always focused."
"More than usual."
"I just found out the woman who destroyed my marriage is destroying someone else's."
Deborah raises both eyebrows. "And what are you going to do about it?"
I pull up my first patient's chart. "What I always do. Help."
She doesn't ask how. She knows me well enough.