At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

“Richard never told me.”

“He hoped it would stop.”

“That sounds like Richard.”

Harris turned over one last document.

A copied check.

Fifteen thousand dollars.

It had been drawn from an account Richard and I used for household savings.

My name appeared on the signature line.

It was not my signature.

From six feet away, perhaps.

Up close, no.

The M was too careful.

My real signature leaned forward. That one stood upright like someone was concentrating on every stroke.

“I didn’t sign this.”

“Richard knew.”

“How?”

“He found the transaction while reviewing statements. He obtained a copy of the check from the bank.”

“Where did the money go?”

Harris hesitated.

“Richard traced it to funds used in connection with a property purchase in New Hampshire. The property was placed in Lauren’s name.”

My stomach tightened.

“Was David involved?”

“Richard believed so.”

“Believed?”

“I don’t want to tell you more than I can support.”