I ignored it and walked down the concrete stairs to the courtyard.

The salt air was cold against my face.

The two federal agents waited by the iron gate.

The older man, whose badge read Special Agent Miller, held open the manila folder.

He handed me a photocopy of a construction loan application.

“Is this your signature on page twelve, Mrs. Whitmore?” he asked.

I looked at the shaky cursive.

It was a poor imitation of my handwriting, written in thick black ink.

“No,” I said.

“Did you authorize your husband to sign this document on your behalf?”

“I did not,” I said.

“Do you have documentation of your personal financial accounts from that date?”

“My attorney, Diane Cho, has the original ledgers,” I said.

Agent Miller took the document back and slid it into the folder.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“We have a warrant for his arrest.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He is currently at his office downtown,” Agent Miller said.

They turned and walked back to their sedan.

The gravel crunched under their shoes.

My phone vibrated again in my palm.