“I was going to put it back,” he said, his voice cracking. “The market turned. Lila… she was the one who suggested the offshore structure.”

“Lila is twenty-three, Ethan,” I said. “She did not write the wire transfers. You did.”

He reached for my hand, but I stepped back.

“Sign the papers,” I said.

“If I sign this, I lose the house,” he said, staring at the document. “I lose the townhouses in the city. I will have nothing left for my defense.”

“If you do not sign them, I hand the second laptop to the federal prosecutor tonight,” I said.

He stared at me, his mouth slightly open.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

“Try me,” I said.

He picked up the heavy silver pen I had placed on the table.

His hand shook so badly the pen scratched against the paper before he signed his name.

I took the documents and slid them back into my briefcase.

The next six months were a quiet, systematic dismantling of our lives.

The autumn rain turned to winter sleet, coating the suburban streets in grey ice.