"I knew you'd understand." Those were the last words Daniel said before leaving for his mistress — and when he returned, his wife was gone.

I told Natalie to let her in.

Sandra Whitmore was sixty-four years old and had never once, in ten years, called me by my first name without a slight pause before it.

As though she had to remind herself each time what it was.

She came through the door in a wool coat I recognized.

Daniel had bought it for her two Christmases ago.

With our money.

She looked around Natalie's apartment the way she always looked at spaces that weren't hers.

Assessing.

Deciding.

Then she looked at me.

"I'd like to speak with Rachel alone," she said.

Natalie didn't move.

"That's not going to happen."

Sandra's gaze moved to her.

"This is a family matter."

"Then you should have kept it in the family," Natalie said.

"Sit down or leave.

Those are your options."

Something shifted in Sandra's expression.

She sat.

I stayed where I was, across the room, with the kitchen island between us.

"Daniel called me," Sandra said.

"He told me what you've done."

"What I've done."

"Filing motions.

Involving lawyers.

Trying to freeze his accounts." Her hands were folded in her lap.

Very controlled.

"Rachel, you're making this uglier than it needs to be."

"The money in your account," I said.

"Sixty-two thousand dollars.

Did you know where it came from?"

"Daniel manages his own finances—"

"It came from our joint account.

Money I earned.

Did you know that when you accepted it?"

Sandra's chin lifted slightly.

"Daniel told me it was a tax restructuring."

"And you believed that."

"He's my son."

"He's also someone who has been moving marital assets into hidden accounts for eighteen months.

Your account was part of that plan." I came around the island and sat down in the chair across from her.

"Sandra, if you knew — if you participated knowingly — that becomes a legal problem for you, not just for Daniel."

Her composure cracked.

Just at the edges.

Her hands tightened in her lap.

"I didn't know the details," she said.

"He told me to hold the money temporarily.

He said it was a formality."

"Did he tell you he was planning to divorce me?"

A pause that lasted one beat too long.

"He mentioned that things had been difficult between you."

"Did he tell you about Claire?"

Sandra looked toward the window.

There it was.

"You knew about Claire," I said.

"I knew he wasn't happy."

"That's not what I asked."

She turned back.

Her eyes were dry but her jaw was tight.

"He told me there was someone.

Yes.

He said you'd grown apart and that he'd found someone who understood him better."

Ten years.

Ten years of Christmases and hospital visits and Sunday dinners where I had passed her the bread and asked about her garden and remembered her doctor's appointments when Daniel forgot.

And she had known.

She had sat across from me at tables and known.

"How long?" I asked.

"Rachel—"

"How long did you know?"

Sandra looked at her hands.

"About a year."

Natalie made a sound from across the room.

Not a word.

Just a sound.

"I want you to listen to me carefully," I said.

"My attorney is going to contact you this week about the funds in your account.

You have a choice about how you respond to that.

You can cooperate and return the money voluntarily, or you can make this a legal matter that becomes very public and very uncomfortable for you." I paused.

"I would recommend the first option."

Sandra's eyes came back to mine.

"You've changed," she said.

And I couldn't tell whether she meant it as a criticism or something else.

"Yes," I said.

"I have."

She stood.

Smoothed her coat.

Looked around the apartment once more.

At the door, she stopped.

"For what it's worth," she said, not turning around, "I did tell him.

When he first told me about the girl.

I told him he was making a mistake."

She left without waiting for a response.

Natalie waited until the door closed.

"A year," she said.

"A year."

Natalie walked to the refrigerator, opened it, took out a bottle of wine, and set it on the counter without a word.

She poured two glasses.

I took mine and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Rebecca needs to know Sandra admitted she knew," I said.

"I recorded it," Natalie said.

I looked up.

She held up her phone.

"The moment she said she wanted to speak to you alone, I hit record." She set the phone on the table between us.

"I've known Sandra Whitmore for ten years.

I wasn't taking any chances."

I looked at the phone.

Then I laughed.

It came out of nowhere and it wasn't entirely steady but it was real, and Natalie started laughing too, and for a moment the kitchen was just two women laughing in the ordinary light of an ordinary evening, and it felt like the first honest thing that had happened in weeks.

Then my phone buzzed on the table.

A message from an unknown number.

Not Claire's.