“You chose your path when you slept with my husband and helped him steal from his clients,” I said.

My voice was flat, devoid of anger.

She winced, her shoulders tensing beneath the dark fabric of her coat.

“He told me it was a temporary loan,” she whispered.

“He said the firm was restructuring and the funds would be replaced before the quarterly audit.”

“And you believed him?”

“I wanted to,” she said.

She reached into her oversized leather tote bag.

She pulled out a thick manila envelope and laid it on the scratched Formica table between us.

“These are the digital authorization logs,” she said, tapping the paper.

“And the personal accounts Graham set up in the Cayman Islands under his shell company.”

I did not touch the envelope yet.

“Why give this to me instead of the federal prosecutors?” I asked.

“Because the prosecutors will take years, and they will ruin me along with him,” she said.

“But your lawyers filed a civil suit against me yesterday afternoon.”

“They froze my personal accounts.”

She looked up, her eyes desperate, rims red from crying.