Lena and I sat in her office on the forty-second floor, the city spread out below us under a dark gray sky.

Boxes of financial records lined the walls, stacked high like paper towers.

“Grant is going to play the victim,” Lena said, tossing a draft of their pre-hearing brief onto the table.

“His lawyers are going to argue that you are a vindictive, wealthy spouse seeking to ruin him out of spite.”

“Let them try,” I said, sipping my lukewarm coffee.

“The public might believe a scorned-wife narrative for a day or two,” she cautioned. “We need to make sure his credibility is dead before he even steps out of that room.”

I opened my laptop and pulled up the secondary file we had compiled over the last forty-eight hours.

“We have the ledger from Zurich,” I said. “But that only links Philip and Blaire.”

“There is more,” Lena said, clicking her mouse to open a new spreadsheet.

She opened a file that documented the Whitaker Charity Foundation’s outbound grants from the last three years.

“Look at the routing numbers for the community center projects in Queens,” she said.