At 3:07 in the morning, a man from the United States Embassy in Switzerland called to tell me there had been an avalanche—

At 3:07 in the morning, a man from the United States Embassy in Switzerland called to tell me there had been an avalanche—and that rescuers had found my credit card buried beneath the snow with a dying woman.

There was only one problem.

I was standing barefoot in my bedroom in Manhattan.

And the husband who had told me he was flying to London for a business conference was nowhere in the apartment.

For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.

“Mrs. Claire Bennett?” the man asked carefully.

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Claire Margaret Bennett?”

“Yes.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Ma’am, I need you to remain calm. A black titanium credit card bearing your name was recovered from the equipment of a female avalanche victim near Verbier. She was traveling with an American man. Rescue teams are still working the site.”

I gripped the edge of my nightstand.

“My card?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Do you have reason to believe someone else could have been using it?”

The question opened a door in my mind that I had apparently spent years holding shut.

My husband, Evan, had left three days earlier. He had kissed my forehead while I was sitting at the kitchen island reviewing edits for my latest novel.

“Zurich Monday, London Wednesday, Frankfurt Thursday,” he had said. “Two weeks of misery in conference rooms.”

I had smiled without looking up. “Bring me chocolate.”

He had laughed. “Anything for my favorite workaholic.”

Now the embassy was calling from Switzerland. Not London. Not Frankfurt. Switzerland.

“What happened to the woman?” I asked.

“She and the male skier were caught in a slide during a privately guided backcountry excursion. Their transponders have been located. The official rescue operation is active, but weather conditions are severe. There is something else you need to know.”

I stared into the darkness. “What?”

“The emergency profile attached to the card listed an additional family contact. Evelyn Bennett.”

My mother-in-law. Ice settled in my stomach.

“She was called before you?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

The officer hesitated. “Mrs. Bennett apparently believed the injured woman was you. She refused to authorize a private supplemental helicopter that the resort operator offered to place at the disposal of the rescue teams. She said the family would not guarantee any additional expenses. She also stated that if the victim was already dead, there was no reason to spend money recovering the body quickly.”

For three years, Evelyn had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my table. I had paid the balance on her hip surgery. I had bought her a new furnace. When her daughter, Paige, lost her job, I covered six months of rent.

Apparently family had a price. And mine was lower than the cost of a helicopter.

“Keep the rescue going,” I said. “I’ll guarantee any expenses.”

I ended the call and opened my banking application. A secondary user had been added to my premium account eleven days earlier.

Charges flared across the screen: $13,840 at a luxury watch boutique in Geneva. $8,200 at a designer store. $9,600 at a mountain resort. $21,475 at a jewelry boutique. $18,900 for a private heli-ski package.

In forty-eight hours, someone had burned through more than $70,000 using my money, my name, my account.

Then I checked the dashcam archives from our Range Rover.

Three days earlier. 6:12 a.m.

Evan was behind the wheel. The passenger door opened, and Madison Cole—the twenty-nine-year-old marketing coordinator from Evan's company—climbed in.

On the video, Madison dropped a designer bag at her feet. “Tell me you actually brought the card.”

Evan grinned, pulling my titanium card from his wallet.

Madison laughed. “Oh my God. What if Claire checks?”