Weeks later, Lauren visited Mabel in a bright apartment, snow turning to slush beyond the panes. Over tea, she laid out photos gently: young Charles, real timelines, the fraud’s trail. “Your instincts spoke true,” Lauren said softly. Mabel’s brow cleared, pieces fitting at last.
Confusion ebbed as they talked, Mabel’s voice gaining strength. “I couldn’t remember things clearly anymore. I knew somehow that this couldn’t be our Charlie,” she said, hands steady now. Lauren validated each flicker—the unease, the whispers—watching trust rebuild in her eyes, fragile but real.