Chapter 2: You Were Never Supposed to Find Those
I put my phone face-down on the desk and looked directly at the camera.
Then I smiled at it.
Let him watch.
I opened the second drawer.
Inside was a manila envelope with my name written in his mother's handwriting.
I pulled it open.
Bank statements.
Twelve months of them.
Every transfer had two names at the top — my husband's and hers.
They had been moving money out of our joint account for over a year.
My legs felt hollow.
I sat down in her chair.
That was when the front door opened.
She walked in — his mother — still holding her teacup, as if she had simply forgotten something.
She saw me at the desk.
She saw the envelope in my hands.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then she said, very quietly: "You were never supposed to find those."
I stood up slowly.
"I know."
Her expression shifted.
Not guilt.
Something colder.
"You don't understand what you're holding," she said.
"Put it back, and we can all walk away from this cleanly."
I looked at her.
"Cleanly."
She nodded, like it was a reasonable offer.
I picked up my phone, turned it toward her, and pressed record.
May you like
"Say that again," I said.
"Slowly."
