“Good.”
He leaned back.
“That’s why I told you not to respond emotionally.”
I nodded.
Then I remembered the envelope.
I placed the photograph on his desk.
“Someone left this for me.”
His expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“Inside the Mercedes.”
He studied it.
“Do you recognize this man?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know his name.”
My attorney turned the photograph over.
“That’s not what I mean.”
He pointed to the date.
“Look at the timestamp.”
“I saw it.”
“No.”
He tapped the paper.
“Look at where the photograph was taken.”
I stared.
The bank behind Laura wasn’t an ordinary bank.
It was the branch where I had once opened a business account.
The same branch where, two months earlier, my business loan application had mysteriously been rejected.
I remembered the letter.
Insufficient financial history.
At the time, I’d been disappointed.
Now something didn’t feel right.
My attorney picked up another document.
“This came with the custody filing.”
He handed it to me.
It was a financial statement.
My name was on it.
My business name was on it.
But the numbers were wrong.
My reported income was nearly double what I actually made.
My debt was significantly lower.
And there were two bank accounts listed that I had never opened.
“What is this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I couldn’t.
My attorney looked at me.
“Someone has been creating a financial picture of you.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
“That is what we need to find out.”
Then the office door opened.
A woman stepped inside.
She was in her forties and carried a leather folder.
“Craig?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Melissa Grant. I’m an investigator for the bank.”
She placed a business card on the desk.
“I was asked to speak with you.”
“About what?”
She looked at my attorney.
Then at me.
“Your ex-wife.”
I felt a chill.
“What does she have to do with my bank?”
Melissa opened her folder.
“Three weeks ago, someone attempted to transfer funds from an account connected to your business.”
“I don’t have another account.”
“We know.”
She pulled out a document.
“That’s the problem.”
My attorney leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“The transfer failed because the account was flagged.”
“Who opened it?”
Melissa looked directly at me.
“We’re still investigating.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the person who attempted the transfer used information that only someone close to you would likely know.”
My heart sank.
My mother’s maiden name.
My childhood address.
My business tax information.
And something else.
A security question.
The name of my first dog.
Only a handful of people knew that.
Laura knew.
I slowly sat down.
My attorney asked, “What amount?”
Melissa answered.
“Thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
The room went silent.
I stared at the paperwork.
Then I noticed something.
The date.
The attempted transfer had occurred two days after Laura first threatened to keep the boys from me.
I remembered what she’d said.
You’re going nowhere in life.
Maybe she hadn’t been talking about my repair shop.
Maybe she’d been talking about something she planned to do.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Laura.
We need to talk. Alone.
I showed my attorney.
He immediately shook his head.
“Don’t meet her alone.”
“I won’t.”
Another message arrived.
You deserve to know the truth about Brent.
I looked at my attorney.
He didn’t say anything.
I typed back one sentence.
Where?
She sent an address.
An old diner twenty minutes outside town.
I arrived early.
Laura was already there.
She looked exhausted.
No makeup.
Messy hair.
Her hands were trembling around a cup of coffee.
For the first time in years, she didn’t look like the woman who had walked away from me.
She looked frightened.
“Why did you come?” I asked.
“Because Brent knows.”
“Knows what?”
She looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
“The Mercedes wasn’t mine.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“It’s leased through one of Brent’s companies.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“He wasn’t trying to avoid paying you.”
“Then what was he trying to do?”
She lowered her voice.
“He wanted you to keep the car.”
My blood ran cold.
“Why?”
“Because something was hidden inside it.”
I thought about the envelope.
The photograph.
The man’s face.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“No.”
For a moment, she looked exactly like the woman I had married eleven years earlier.
Then she whispered:
“Brent has been moving money through businesses that aren’t really businesses.”
I said nothing.
“He uses repair shops, construction companies, storage facilities. Places where cash moves around and paperwork gets messy.”
