“It sounds like she knew nobody would believe her without proof.”
Margaret flinched.
I did too.
Because he was right.
Months earlier, I had started saving things.
Voicemails.
Texts.
Screenshots.
Notes with dates and times.
The forensic accountant in me had taken over long before the frightened wife was willing to admit why.
My old job had taught me that lies became expensive when you organized the evidence.
Margaret had been building a story about me.
So I had built a record of her.
Caleb suddenly sat in the chair near the wall.
He looked gray.
Ryan turned on him.
“Who put my signature on these papers?”
Caleb rubbed both palms across his face.
“Ryan—”
“Who?”
Margaret stepped between them.
“This conversation is over.”
“No,” Caleb said.
Her head snapped toward him.
He looked at her for a long moment, and something in his expression collapsed.
“I’m not taking this alone.”
