But Max broke free and lunged again—not at his leg this time, but at the suitcase. He tore the zipper open with his teeth.
And something spilled out onto the wedding aisle.
Documents. Stacks of them. With names. Photos. Transactions.
A passport… with Mark’s picture but a different name: Michael Larson.
My breath stopped.
“What… what is this?” I whispered.
g
Mark’s face went pale—dead pale.
“Sarah, listen, I can explain—”
“Explain WHAT?” my father demanded as he rushed forward. Guests circled, confused and murmuring.
Mark swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his forehead.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
But Max barked again, louder, more aggressive. He positioned himself in front of me like a guard.
