“She was,” Patricia said, her eyes narrowing. “She wanted to keep her software money separate. If I hadn’t adjusted the joint-account structures before the wedding, we would have gone under by the first quarter.”

“Adjusted?” Harrison laughed, a dry, bitter sound that echoed off the high ceiling of the study. “You stole from her.”

“I protected our legacy,” Patricia said.

Outside, the wind rattled the double-pane glass of the penthouse windows.

A light snow was beginning to fall over the Minneapolis skyline, dusting the balcony railing in white.

I looked down at my phone.

The timer on the recording app showed four minutes and twelve seconds.

Harrison shook his head, his hands dropping to his sides, still clutching the folder.

“She’s going to ruin us,” Harrison said, his voice sinking into panic. “If her lawyer gets this to the judge, it’s not just a divorce settlement anymore. It’s fraud.”

“Only if they can prove the transfers were unauthorized,” Patricia said.

She stepped toward the desk, her fingers tapping against the polished mahogany.

“The signatures on those authorization forms are yours, Harrison,” she said softly.