They weren’t there because of the locks. Desmond had called police from Reno at six that morning, claiming I had stolen his vehicle and emptied accounts that belonged to him. The older officer explained it in the flat voice of someone accustomed to strange early-morning calls. I invited them inside, made coffee, and placed three things on the kitchen table: my deed, bank statements proving every account predated my marriage, and a text message containing a photograph of Desmond beneath a neon sign at three in the morning. The timestamp was clear.

The younger officer read the message twice. Then he quietly said, “Bigamy.” The older officer lowered his cup. Desmond had never filed for divorce. He hadn’t even mentioned separating. He had married Priya in Nevada while he was still legally married to me, and somehow he had taken a photograph of the marriage certificate himself. He hadn’t just betrayed me. He had apparently wanted me to see it and feel small. But now the evidence was sitting directly in front of the police.