of boarding my flight, I spent the next several hours talking to law enforcement.
Eventually, a detective named Marsh met me in a small room at the airport precinct.
A family liaison sat nearby as he slid photocopies across the table.
“Your husband opened accounts using a relative’s information two years before the Disney trip,” Marsh said.
Two years.
This hadn’t begun the night Cynthia disappeared.
Gary had planned it.
“The drawing’s postmark leads to a coastal town,” Marsh continued. “Your husband’s sister lives there.”
“Rhonda,” I whispered.
He nodded.
