His hand was warm, the same hand that had signed the unauthorized transfers.

“Come back to bed soon,” he murmured.

“I will,” I said.

He turned and walked back down the hallway, his bare feet whispering against the hardwood.

I waited until I heard the bedroom door click shut.

Then, I turned back to the printer.

The last page slid into the tray.

I gathered the thick stack of paper and slipped it into a heavy black leather binder.

I hid the binder at the bottom of my overnight bag in the closet.

The alarm went off at six o’clock.

The sky outside was a dull, bruised grey.

Ethan was already in the shower when I got up.

I dressed in a sharp, charcoal-grey pantsuit.

I brushed my hair back and tied it into a tight, low knot.

In the mirror, my face looked pale but completely calm.

I walked down to the kitchen and made coffee.

Ethan came downstairs ten minutes later, adjusting his silk tie.

He looked like the picture of executive success.

“Do you want some toast?” I asked.