Rebecca Entered My House
That evening, police contacted Emily about her report.
An officer asked whether she wanted to submit additional digital evidence.
She said yes.
Michael drove her to the station.
I stayed with Noah.
While he played with wooden trains on Sarah’s living-room floor, I watched him with a heaviness in my chest.
A three-year-old had protected his mother while I had been getting ready to marry the person who frightened him.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Are you still marrying Rebecca?”
“No.”
His face relaxed.
“Okay.”
That one word nearly broke me.
Later that evening, I checked the security cameras at my house.
Rebecca had access because we had planned to live there after the honeymoon.
At 8:42 p.m., her car entered the driveway.
I called Michael immediately.
“She’s at my house.”
“Don’t go there.”
“I’m watching the cameras.”
Rebecca walked onto the porch carrying a large handbag.
She used the key I had given her and went inside.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Upstairs hallway.
Then my office.
She remained there nearly nine minutes.
When she emerged, she was carrying a document box.
I recognized it.
Tax returns.
Investment statements.
Property records.
Copies of trust documents.
Everything I should never have allowed her to access.
I called police.
Officers arrived before she reached her car.
One of them called me.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Collins with the Evanston Police Department. Ms. Reynolds says she resides at this address.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She says she’s your fiancée.”
“She was. The wedding was canceled today.”
There was a pause.
“Did she have permission to enter tonight?”
“No.”
“Did you previously give her a key?”
“Yes.”
“That complicates the entry issue, but we’ll document it.”
Then he asked about the financial records.
“They’re mine.”
“Did she have permission to remove them?”
“No.”
Rebecca was not arrested that evening.
Michael had warned me that could happen because I had voluntarily given her a key and previously allowed her access.
But the officers returned my documents.
They told Rebecca not to return unless she had authorization or police accompaniment.
The next morning, I changed every lock.
Changed the alarm codes.
Froze my credit.
Contacted my bank.
Investment company.
Insurance company.
Accountant.
Attorney.
By noon, we found the first financial problem.
Someone had attempted to create an online lender account using my Social Security number two weeks earlier.
The application had never been completed.
I didn’t recognize the email address.
But the recovery phone number ended with the same four digits as Rebecca’s second phone.
A phone I had never known existed.
