After my accident, my husband let his mother lead him out the door with a suitcase — by morning they were both pounding on a porch where their key no longer worked.

Denise called at seven on the dot. I'd been awake for two hours.

Meghan was in the kitchen with Nora, and I could hear my daughter demanding the cereal "with the stars in it," her voice so bright and normal it made my throat ache.

"The statement you sent me," Denise said. "Where exactly was it?"

"Our home filing cabinet. Unlabeled folder, pushed to the very back of the bottom drawer."

"And you've had sole access to that cabinet the whole marriage?"

"He always told me he kept his work files at the office. He never touched it."

"The account has monthly deposits going back at least eighteen months. The co-holder — you don't know her?"

"Never heard the name before last night."

"Brooke Lambert," Denise said. "I ran a preliminary search this morning. She's got a residential address over in Kingsley. Maybe twenty minutes from your front door."

I didn't say anything.

"The deposits are like clockwork," she went on. "Same amount, same day every month. This isn't a business account. The charges are restaurants, hotels, department stores."

I stared at the ceiling. "He's been keeping her."

"That's what the pattern says. We'll bring in a forensic accountant to go deeper, but what you pulled out of that cabinet last night matters. It proves financial concealment during the marriage. That moves the whole settlement."

"Moves it how much?"

"A lot. In your direction." She let that land. "Come into the office Thursday and I'll walk you through the full picture."

I hung up. Almost immediately, the door camera pinged.

They were back.

Ethan was dressed for work, which threw me. Marlene stood a step behind him, arms crossed, wearing the face she saved for waitresses and receptionists.

He hit the intercom. "I know you're in there. Five minutes. That's all I want."

I pressed the button. "My lawyer told me not to talk to you directly."

"Your lawyer." He laughed, and there was nothing in it. "You lawyered up over one bad night? I panicked, okay? That's all it was. That doesn't mean—"

"Ethan." I kept my voice flat. "I found the account."

The camera was sharp enough that I watched the color drain out of his face in real time.

Marlene put a hand on his arm. He shook it off.

"That's — that's a business account," he said. "It's tied to a project. It has nothing to do with—"

"Brooke Lambert," I said.

His mouth shut.

Marlene turned and looked at him. And even through a four-inch screen, I could tell she hadn't known that name either. Or she was doing a very good impression of not knowing. With Marlene, you could never quite measure the difference.

"Ethan," she said quietly. "What is she talking about?"

He didn't answer his own mother.

"You asked for five minutes," I said. "You've had them."

I cut the intercom.

Meghan was standing in the bedroom doorway. She'd heard enough.

"How bad?" she asked.

"Eighteen months of payments — at least — to a woman twenty minutes away. While I ran this house and raised his kid."

She sat down slowly in the chair by the window and looked out at the street, where Ethan and Marlene were standing near the door, not talking to each other.

"Does Nora know anything?"

"No. And she's not going to. Not now."

"What do you need?"

"Take her to the park this afternoon. I've got a two o'clock with Denise and I don't want Nora in the house for it."

Meghan nodded. When she looked back out the window, they were gone.

But the camera had caught something on the doormat. A small white envelope, half tucked under the edge. Ethan must have set it down before he ever touched the intercom.

Meghan brought it in without opening it.

One card inside. Ethan's handwriting, barely any ink at all.

*Please. Let me explain.*