“Every cent. You signed the account agreement. My lawyer says there’s nothing you can do.”
Vanessa lifted her champagne. “Maybe the library is hiring.”
I’d abandoned financial investigations after marrying Grant. He liked calling me his quiet wife who “used to do some accounting.”
I had allowed that description to stand because I wanted him to feel valued. I mistook his need to seem superior for something harmless, even loving.
When my father died, Grant held my hand throughout the funeral and promised I would never have to face another hardship by myself.
For years I trusted him enough to overlook the sharpness beneath his jokes. Looking back from that doorway, I finally understood that every insult had been a warning.
He shut the door before I retrieved the photograph.
Outside, my banking alerts showed $184,600
transferred to a Nevada bank. That institution had surfaced six months earlier in a questionable payment flagged by my compliance firm. I wasn’t ignoring the connection.
