He was still trying to play the game, even with the board collapsing around him.

“You want me to commit perjury,” I said.

“It’s not perjury if we agree it was a joint marital decision,” he said. “No one can prove otherwise.”

“The FBI can,” I said. “They have the forensic handwriting analysis from my lawyer.”

Daniel’s face drained of color.

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“You already gave them the analysis?” he asked.

“I gave my lawyer permission to share my files with the federal investigators two days ago,” I said.

He fell back against his desk, knocking over a silver pen holder.

The pens scattered across the polished wood and rolled onto the rug.

“Why would you do that?” he whispered. “You’re destroying your own future.”

“My future doesn’t depend on your stolen money, Daniel.”

“You’ll be broke,” he said, his voice rising. “You’ll be living in that dusty studio on Wabash, selling cheap watercolors to tourists.”

“I’d rather do that than spend another night in this tomb,” I said.

He looked down at the floor, his shoulders slumping.