Inside were statements showing years of deposits into the accounts Preston had emptied.
Income I had earned before and during our marriage.
Transfers I had made into the emergency fund.
Receipts for nursery purchases.
Records of the small automatic deposits I had been putting into October every Friday.
Fifty dollars here.
Two hundred there.
Sometimes more when I could.
The amount wasn’t important to my father.
The pattern was.
He picked up one statement.
“You built these yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Did Preston contribute?”
“Occasionally to checking.
Not to the baby account.
Not to my savings.”
The manager asked whether Preston knew my passwords.
I thought about it.
Months earlier, my phone had died while we were paying a contractor.
Preston had asked for my banking login so he could confirm a household payment from his laptop.
I had given it to him.
Once.
Afterward, I changed the password.
Or I thought I had.
“He had access at one point,” I said.
“But I never gave him permission to move this money.”
She documented that too.
Then my phone lit up.
PRESTON.
I let it ring.
It stopped.
A text arrived immediately.
Where are you?
Another followed.
I told you we’d handle this tonight.
Then:
Do not embarrass me over this.
My father read the messages upside down from across the desk.
His mouth tightened.
“He thinks you’re embarrassing him?”
“Apparently.”
“Grace.”
I looked up.
“Do you want me involved?”
It would have been easy to say yes.
Henry Whitmore could make problems disappear before lunch.
That was exactly why I had kept him out of my marriage.
I closed the folder.
“I want you beside me,” I said.
“Not in front of me.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he pulled out the chair beside mine and sat.
“All right.”
The manager made several calls while we waited.
The first transfer into Preston’s company account had already settled.
