I asked the guard for copies of every clip, and I drove home in my SUV without calling Desmond. My hands were shaking the whole drive. That night, while he slept, I opened his laptop. The password was our anniversary. Inside was a folder labeled Notes, filled with dated entries about every time I forgot something, along with the videos of me wandering parking lots looking lost and confused.

There was also a draft power of attorney, and an email to a neurologist describing my “rapidly worsening memory.” Every time he joked about my memory, he had been building a case. The woman in the car was named Celine. They had been together for over a year. My late father had left me a lake house worth nearly six hundred thousand dollars, in my name alone. Desmond planned to have me declared unfit so he could sell it and leave with her.