”
She nodded, ushering me in and letting the heavy steel door close behind us with a loud, echoing thud. We were in a dark corridor lit by fluorescent lamps. Without a word, she led me through a maze of hallways to a small, windowless office. It was claustrophobic, smelling of old paper, ozone, and burnt coffee.
“Sit down,” she said, pointing to a plastic chair opposite her desk.
I sat down. My legs felt like lead. “Ms. Delaney, please. You’re terrifying me. Is there a problem with Ryan’s background check? Hasn’t he paid taxes? What’s going on?”
Ms. Delaney didn’t offer a reassuring smile. She offered no comfort at all. She sat heavily in her chair, brought her keyboard closer, and typed a few keys. A printer in the corner sputtered to life, spitting out a single sheet of paper.
She took the paper, placed it in a kraft paper folder, and set it on the desk between us. She rested her hands on it, looking at me with an expression of deep and devastating pity.
“Maya, my job is usually cheerful. I finalize the administrative formalities for people starting their lives together. But from time to time, the national automated database detects something that has slipped through the local preliminary checks. Usually, it’s a forgotten finalized divorce decree. An administrative delay.”
“Okay,” I breathed, feeling a desperate spark of hope. “So Ryan was married before and the divorce isn’t finalized? He told me he’d never been married, but maybe he was young, maybe he made a mistake and was embarrassed to tell me—”
“Maya,” she interrupted softly, her voice heartbreakingly gentle. “This isn’t a delayed divorce.”
She opened the file and turned the paper over so that it was facing me.
It was a standard municipal record. A marriage history check.
At the top, it read: CARTER, RYAN JAMES. Date of birth: 08/14/1988.
I scanned the lines of bureaucratic text until my eyes reached the highlighted section. The words became blurry, swimming in my vision before focusing in a horrible, agonizing way.
MARITAL STATUS: EXISTING – NOT DISSOLVED.
DATE OF MARRIAGE: OCTOBER 12, 2014.
JURISDICTION: WASHOE COUNTY, NEVADA.
“It’s impossible,” I grumbled. The air in the room felt too thin. I couldn’t breathe deeply. “We just got married yesterday. We were standing in front of a priest. We signed the papers.”
“Your marriage yesterday is legally null and void, Maya,” Mrs. Delaney said, her voice firm but full of sorrow. “Your husband committed perjury and fraud on her behalf. He is currently, and legally, married to someone else. He is a bigamist.”
My blood ran cold. The roar in my ears was like a jet engine. Ryan. My Ryan. The man who held my hair back when I had the flu, the man who built a custom shelf for my bookcase, the man who cried when he said his vows yesterday. He was living a double life. Our entire relationship, our engagement, our home—it was all built on a foundation of absolute, calculated perjury.
“Why…” I stammered, wrapping my arms around my stomach as a wave of nausea hit me. “Why did you tell me to come alone? Why not just call the police?”
“Because,” Mrs. Delaney said, leaning forward. “In my 20 years of doing this, I’ve seen this scenario three times. Men who go so far as to fake a legal identity to get a second marriage aren’t making mistakes. They’re predators. And when a predator realizes his trap has been discovered, he becomes incredibly dangerous. I needed you out of that house, away from him, before you knew the truth.”
I looked at the paper. I felt violated. I felt dirty. I had slept next to a ghost.
“Who is she?” I whispered, my tears finally falling, hot and angry. “Who is the woman he’s married to? Does she know? Is she waiting for him in Nevada?”
Ms. Delaney didn’t say a word. She rummaged in a drawer, took out a second sheet of paper, and slid it onto the desk. It was a copy of the original 2014 Nevada marriage certificate.
“That’s what terrified me the most, Maya,” Mrs. Delaney murmured. “Look at the spouse’s name.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my trembling hand and looked at the digitized and faded document.
Spouse 1: Ryan James Carter.
Spouse 2: Diane Evelyn Carter.
My heart stopped. It didn’t skip a beat; it completely ceased to function. The walls of the claustrophobic office seemed to rush in, crushing the oxygen in my lungs.
My phone was vibrating violently in my pocket. I jumped, pulling it out with numb, uncoordinated fingers. It was a text from Ryan.
Baby, where are you? The black car for the airport is almost here. Come home, I miss you.
I looked at the bright screen, then at the piece of paper. My hands were shaking so violently that I dropped the phone on the desk. It clattered against the wood.
Diane Carter wasn’t a stranger living in Nevada.
Diane Carter was the woman who had helped me choose my wedding dress. Diane Carter was the woman who had baked the groom’s cake for our rehearsal dinner. Diane Carter was the woman who stood in the front row of the church yesterday, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, playing the role of the emotional and loving mother-in-law.
“That’s his mother,” I choked out, a hysterical, broken sound escaping my throat. “He told me she was his mother.”
