I met Daniel at a coffee shop the next afternoon and slid a folder across the table. He opened it, and the color left his face.
“Divorce?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Over dinner?”
“No, Daniel. Dinner just made something impossible to ignore.”
Inside were two years of account records — dozens of small transfers, every one of them drawn from accounts connected to me. Transactions I had never approved, amounts I had never seen, moving like clockwork to places I had never sent them. My attorney tapped one line with a manicured nail. “Look at the device used to authorize them.”
Daniel’s face changed. Because at the bottom of the final statement was the name the money had actually been going to — and it was not his mother.