The bank foreclosed on the suburban house, the grand foyer where we once hosted charity galas now empty and locked.

The lawns grew long and wild under the spring sun.

I stood on the sidewalk one afternoon, watching the bank’s contractors put up the foreclosure sign.

My phone rang, and it was my financial advisor.

The transfers were complete, and the capital was secured in private, irrevocable trusts.

I was no longer wealthy by suburban standards, but I was secure.

I had enough to live comfortably, free of the firm, free of the gossip, and free of Ethan.

Before he was transported to the federal facility in Pennsylvania, I met him in the visitor’s room of the county jail.

A Plexiglas barrier separated us, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights.

He wore a green jumpsuit that was too large for his frame.

He picked up the heavy black receiver, and I did the same.

“You look well, Clara,” he said.

“I am well, Ethan,” I said.

“The lawyers say there is nothing left,” he said, his voice flat. “They took the pension. They took the apartment.”