My husband had beean sleeping around for a year while I built our company — and the proof was hiding under his passenger seat.

Vanessa's mouth opened and shut. Nothing came out.

Derek shifted his weight on the crutches and turned to me.

"Mrs. Hollis, I'm sorry to pull you into the middle of this. But you have a right to know what your husband's been doing."

He reached back into the room, one-handed, and came out with a manila envelope from the nightstand. His hand wasn't steady.

"These were in her bag the night she left. She didn't know I'd looked."

Bank statements. Not mine. Not Grant's personal account. A separate account I had never once seen — opened eighteen months ago in the name of Hollis Development Group, with exactly one authorized signer.

Vanessa's.

Something cold slid down the middle of my chest.

"That's a company account," I said. "I'm still half owner of that company. How does she have signing authority on it?"

Vanessa finally found her voice. "You don't even understand what you're looking at."

"Then explain it to me," Derek said. "Slowly. All of it."

She said nothing.

I turned to the last page. In eleven months, more than four hundred thousand dollars had left that account. All of it flowing to a property holding company I'd never heard of.

Then I saw the name of the registered director.

Lucille. Grant's mother.

My hands went still on the paper.

Every soft thing Grant had said to me for the past year — rest, let me carry it, you've done enough — rearranged itself into something else entirely while I stood there.

I looked up at Vanessa. She was staring at the floor tiles.

"How long has Grant been building this?"