My husband booked himself a first-class seat and shoved me into the last row with our triplets — before the plane even leveled off, he was back at my side, ash-gray and shaking, whispering, "How could you do this to me?"

Walter had a calm voice and the precise, unhurried manner of a man who'd spent forty years in rooms where people lied to him and had learned to wait them out.

I called him at nine. By nine-thirty he'd reviewed the screenshot of the forged document, the photo of Grant's handwritten note, and the text Grant had sent two days before the flight. Bethany had forwarded her own records — the messages, the dinner receipts Grant had paid with what was almost certainly my debit card, the name of the hotel they'd stayed in twice over eight months.

"This is substantial," Walter said.

"Is it enough?"

"For what, specifically?"

"To protect myself. Get my money back. Make sure he can't do this again."

"The forged signature alone is serious," he said. "That's document fraud. Whether you take it criminal or use it as leverage in a civil proceeding is a strategy question. But yes — you have enough to act." A pause. "The handwritten note in her bag is the hard part for him. A man who writes his girlfriend a contingency plan before a flight where his wife might learn the truth knew exactly what he was doing." Another pause. "Let me refer you to a colleague. Family law. She's excellent."

"Please."

He gave me the name. I wrote it down.

After I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the babies. They were on the floor now, awake and reasonably content, surrounded by the little toys I'd packed. June was trying to eat a plastic giraffe. Ivy was studying her own foot with deep concentration. Theo was watching the curtain move in the air conditioning like it was the greatest show he'd ever seen.

I thought about the version of this trip I'd pictured three weeks ago, when Grant first brought it up. Somewhere by the ocean. The babies in the sand. A real rest. I'd wanted it so badly I'd handed over my savings without enough questions.

My phone rang. Unknown number.

"Mrs. Ellison? My name is Marla Quinn. I'm a reporter with the regional news desk. We got a tip this morning about a document fraud case involving a—"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not talking to press."

"Of course. I just wanted to confirm—"

I ended the call.

A tip. This morning. Grant. He'd called a reporter, or someone had for him — getting ahead of the story, or pressuring me, or both.

I called Walter back. "He's already talking to press."

He was quiet for two seconds. "Then we move faster. Can you be available for a call with my colleague this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Good. Don't talk to reporters. Don't post anything. Don't respond to Grant directly unless it's in writing."

"Understood."

"One more thing." His voice shifted slightly. "Sylvia Ellison called my office this morning."

"What did she want?"

"She asked me to encourage you to handle this privately. She said a public proceeding would hurt the children."

My hand tightened on the phone. "What did you tell her?"

"That I represent you, not the Ellison family, and I'd pass along her concern." A pause. "I'm passing it along. For what it's worth, I don't think she's acting in bad faith. I think she's frightened."

"She knew about the job for a year. She stayed quiet."

"Yes," Walter said. "She did."