My husband demanded I get liposuction because I was "not as thin as his brother's wife" — but during a family dinner, our oldest son stood up and wiped the smile right off his face.

Her name was Patricia Holt.

Daniel had recommended her.

He said she was the best family attorney in the county and that she did not lose.

She had an office on the fourth floor of a building downtown, and she had a way of sitting — very still, very straight — that made you feel like the room was paying attention.

I told her everything.

It took forty minutes.

She didn't interrupt once.

When I finished, she set her pen down.

"The apartment deposit," she said.

"Do you have documentation?"

"Daniel does.

He has the bank transfer.

Jared asked him to move money between accounts to make it harder to trace."

"Daniel is willing to provide that?"

"Yes."

She made a note.

"The messages on Daniel's phone — are they still accessible?"

"Daniel kept screenshots."

Another note.

"Your joint accounts — has he moved anything in the last thirty days?"

I thought about it.

"I don't know.

I haven't had access to the main account in two years.

He said it was easier if he managed the finances."

Patricia looked up from her notepad.

"He removed your access two years ago?"

"He said I found budgeting stressful.

He said he was doing me a favor."

She held my gaze for a moment.

"Mrs.

Callahan.

I want you to go home today and photograph every financial document you can find.

Tax returns, mortgage statements, investment accounts, anything with both your names on it.

Do it before he has a chance to move anything."

"Do you think he would?"

"I think a man who planned his exit carefully enough to open a separate apartment and route money through his brother's account is capable of protecting his assets." She picked up her pen again.

"I'd rather we not find out the hard way."

I nodded.

"There's something else," I said.

She waited.

"His company.

He's a partner in a consulting firm.

Three years ago, he brought in a contract — a large one.

He told me it was his deal alone, but Daniel mentioned once that the initial client contact came through me.

Through a connection I made at a charity event." I paused.

"I never thought about it until last night."

Patricia was quiet for a moment.

"Do you have any documentation of that connection?

Emails, invitations, anything with your name on it?"

"I might.

I kept a lot of old emails."

"Find them," she said simply.

I drove home with a list in my phone and a feeling in my chest that was not quite hope and not quite fear.

Something between the two.

Something that felt like the first morning of a long project.

Jared's car was not in the driveway.

I went inside, sat down at the desk in the study, and started opening filing cabinet drawers.

Four hours later, I had a folder two inches thick and an email from 2019 with my name in the subject line, forwarding a client introduction to Jared's business partner.

I photographed every page.

Then I sent the folder to Patricia's office.

Then I made dinner for my sons.

Jacob came into the kitchen while I was chopping vegetables.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching me.

"How did it go?" he said.

"Good," I said.

"I think it went well."