He threw the bill at my face on the highway.

Six weeks ago, Derek had left his laptop open on the kitchen counter while he showered before work.

I had not been looking for anything.

I had been looking for the grocery list I thought I'd emailed myself, and his browser was open, and the tab that was visible was not a grocery list.

It was a property transfer document.

Our house — the one we had bought together four years ago, the one I had contributed sixty percent of the down payment toward using money my mother left me — was listed in the document.

The buyer's name was an LLC I had never heard of.

Heron Gate Properties.

The sale price was listed.

The date of transfer was listed.

It was three weeks in the future.

I stood in the kitchen for a long time.

Long enough for Derek to finish his shower, dress, come downstairs, pour coffee, and say, "You look pale.

You coming down with something?" before kissing my cheek and leaving for work.

I did not say anything.

I took a photograph of the screen with my phone instead.

"I called my father that afternoon," I told Frank.

"He called you."

Frank nodded.

"You sent me the photograph.

I began a title search the following day." He looked at his notes.

"The LLC — Heron Gate Properties — was registered eight months ago in Delaware.

The sole registered agent is a woman named Chloe Marsh."

The name landed in the room like something dropped from a height.

My father's expression did not change.

He had already known.

Frank had told him.

I had known too, since Frank's first call back to me two weeks after I sent the photograph.

But hearing the name spoken aloud in this room, in this bed, with the IV line in my arm and the monitor beside me — it settled differently.

"She's his secretary," I said.

"She was," Frank said.

"She resigned from the firm three weeks ago.

She is currently listed as the managing director of Heron Gate Properties."

"He was going to sell our house," I said.

"Transfer the proceeds into an LLC she controls.

And then what — file for divorce and claim the asset was already gone?"

"That appears to be the structure, yes."

I looked at the ceiling.

"He called it a misunderstanding," I said.

"Tonight.

Standing right there.

He said tonight was a misunderstanding."

"He'll say that to anyone who will listen," Frank said.

"It won't hold.

The document trail is clear.

The pharmacy record establishes a pattern of deliberate negligence.

The 911 log and the ER physician's report establish the physical consequence." He paused.

"What he said in the car tonight — about the party, the promotion, the air freshener — did anyone else hear any of it?"

"No."

"The truck driver.

Gary Paulson.

Did he hear anything when he found you?"

"I don't know what I said.

I was barely conscious."

Frank made a note.

"I'll speak with him tomorrow." He looked at me over the top of his notepad.

"Willow, I want to be straightforward with you.

The civil case is strong.

The criminal case depends on how aggressively the DA wants to pursue medical neglect.

That is not fully in our control.

What is in our control is the property fraud, and that case is very strong."

"He said he has records," I said.

"He mentioned calls to you.

He mentioned the money I moved."

"The money you moved was your own inheritance, transferred to a separate account in your name only, on the advice of counsel, after you discovered evidence of fraud." Frank closed his notepad.

"He's welcome to present that in court."

My father squeezed my hand once.

"Get some rest," he said.

"Frank and I will be in the waiting area."

"Dad." I held his hand before he could stand.

"He's going to come back.

He's going to try something else."

My father looked at me steadily.

"I know."

"What do we do?"

"We let him," my father said.

"Every time Derek Vale tries something, he leaves a record.