My personal phone on the desk began to hum, vibrating against the dark wood.

It was Daniel again.

This time, I picked it up.

“Rachel,” his voice was frantic, his breathing heavy.

“You need to answer me.”

“I am listening, Daniel,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly calm.

“What is going on with the accounts?” he demanded.

“My card was declined.”

“I couldn’t transfer the funds for the mortgage.”

“You have no right to lock me out of our money.”

“It isn’t our money, Daniel,” I said.

“It is my money.”

“And I know exactly where the rest of it went.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

I could hear the sound of car blinkers in the background.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Whitmore Holdings,” I said.

“The property in Colorado Springs.”

“The personal loans.”

“I have the forensic report in front of me, Daniel.”

“Every transfer, every forged signature.”

The silence returned, heavier this time.

When he spoke again, the anger was gone, replaced by a low, desperate tone.

“