Chapter 6: The Account He Thought I'd Never Find
Her name was Ruth Calloway.
She had been practicing family law for twenty-two years, and she had a voice that made you feel like the ground was solid again even when it wasn't.
I sat in her office two days later with the folded note in my bag and Carol's account typed out in a document on my phone.
"Walk me through everything," Ruth said.
"Start from the photoshoot."
I did.
All of it.
Wesley's question in front of our daughters.
The phone call and the relief on his face.
The message from Carol that night.
The coffee shop.
The note.
Ruth listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she set her pen down.
"The note alone isn't enough to prove financial misconduct," she said.
"But it's a thread.
If there's an account he opened without your knowledge and moved marital assets into, we can find it.
That's what forensic accountants do."
"How long does that take?"
"Depends on how carefully he hid it.
Could be a few weeks.
Could be longer." She looked at me steadily.
"Has he said anything to you since that day?
About money, about the future, about what he wants?"
"He's been polite," I said.
"Careful.
He comes home, he sees the girls, he sleeps in the guest room.
He hasn't asked me for anything."
"That tells me he's waiting," Ruth said.
"He hasn't made his move yet because he doesn't know what you know."
"Good," I said.
"I'd like to keep it that way."
Ruth nodded.
"Then don't change anything.
Don't confront him about the money.
Don't let him know you've spoken to anyone.
Go home, be normal, and let us work."
I drove home with both hands on the wheel and the radio off.
Wesley was in the kitchen when I arrived, making dinner.
The girls were at the table doing homework.
The scene looked so ordinary it made my chest ache.
"Hey," he said.
"I made pasta."
"Thank you," I said.
I set my bag down.
I helped my youngest with her letters.
I ate dinner at the same table as the man who had been moving our money into a private account for four months, and I said nothing.
After the girls were in bed, Wesley came to find me in the living room.
"Can we talk?" he said.
"About what?"
He sat down across from me.
"About what happens next.
I know this is — I know it's bad.
But I want to try to handle it like adults.
For the girls."
"I agree," I said.
"For the girls."
"I was thinking we could talk to someone.
A mediator, maybe.
Work out the finances without it getting ugly."
The word *finances* sat in the air between us.
"That sounds reasonable," I said.
He looked slightly surprised.
Like he had expected a fight and didn't know what to do without one.
"Okay," he said.
"Good.
I'll look into it."
"Sure," I said.
"Take your time."
He went to bed.
I sat in the living room for another hour, very still, thinking about the word *mediator* and what it meant that he had brought up finances before he had once asked how I was feeling.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Ruth's office.
*We've identified a secondary account opened fourteen months ago.
Statements attached.
Please review and confirm the transactions are not ones you authorized.*
I opened the attachment.
The account had been opened fourteen months ago — two months before he ever met Diane.
The first transfer was small.
Fifty dollars.
Then a hundred.
Then, over time, larger.
Methodical.
Patient.
May you like
This had not been about Diane.
This had been the plan all along.
