I opened my laptop on his desk and logged into our joint bank portal.

I also signed an authorization form allowing him to request records from the lending company.

“Give me forty-eight hours,” Mr. Vance said.

“I will run a full analysis on the handwriting and track where these funds went.”

I spent the next two days staying at a cheap motel near the interstate.

I texted Rylan, telling him I needed a few days of quiet space to think about our marriage.

He sent back dozens of messages, alternating between professions of love and subtle threats.

*You’re overreacting, Calla,* one text read.

*We are a family, and you can’t just run away when things get stressful,* read another.

*My mother is very worried about you,* he wrote later that night.

I ignored them all.

I worked my shifts at the clinic, going through the motions like a ghost.

On Thursday afternoon, Mr. Vance called me back to his office.

The blinds were drawn against the bright afternoon sun, and a fresh stack of folders lay on his desk.

“Sit down, Calla,” he said.