Chapter 3

That weekend, Frank was actually home for once. He was sprawled on the sofa scrolling through TikToks while our daughter played on his back.

The living room felt warm and cozy; the TV hummed in the background, and a plate of sliced fruit I'd just prepped sat on the coffee table. It looked like a picture-perfect family.

If only I didn't know any better.

"Rachel, how much do we have left in the budget this month?" Frank asked.

I poked my head out from the kitchen. "Why do you ask?"

"Clients are being slow to pay up this month. I was thinking of pulling 16 thousand dollars from the family account to cover some overhead," he said.

He'd borrowed from us before, small amounts like 3000 or 6000 dollars, and he always paid it back on time. But he hadn't asked for a dime in six months.

Probably because his money was going elsewhere, and he didn't need to dip into our savings. But why was he asking now? Did she have a new expense?

"Sure, I'll transfer it over," I said.

"Thanks, babe." He didn't even look up, just kept scrolling through his videos.

I went back into the kitchen and sent the 16 thousand dollars. I took a screenshot and saved it straight into the "Asset Inventory" note.

Later that afternoon, he said he had to go meet a client. He threw on a navy polo and sprayed some cologne.

You don't need cologne to meet a client.

I didn't press him. "Will you be back for dinner?"

"Not sure. Go ahead and eat without me," he said.

The door clicked shut. I waited ten minutes, then hopped on my computer to look up that flower shop. It was called "Mandy's Blooms."

It had a page on Yelp with a 4.8-star rating. In the photos, a young woman was standing among the flowers with a sweet smile. Round face, long hair, wearing a floral sundress.

One review said: [The owner is gorgeous, and the flowers are so fresh.]

I looked up her location, 116 Greenhill Road.

Our house was on the East Side, while her shop was all the way across town on the West Side. Frank's office was right downtown. It was an 18-minute drive from his office to her shop but a 45-minute commute from his office to our house.

I closed the tab and went to pick up my daughter from school. On the way, I passed a real estate agency and stopped to check the listings in the window.

Two-bedroom apartments on the East Side were going for anywhere between 1166 and 1400 dollars a month. I discreetly saved the agency's phone number.

At 9:30 that night, Frank came home. He smelled faintly of lilies. It wasn't his cologne.

"Done with the client?" I asked.

"Yeah, signed a letter of intent." He hung his jacket on the rack. "Things went pretty well today."

I nodded. "That's good to hear."

While he was in the shower, I picked up his jacket. There was a receipt in the pocket.

[Mandy's Blooms. One hand-tied bouquet, 126 dollars.]

The timestamp was 3:12 PM. He'd left the house at 2 PM.

I slipped the receipt back and folded the jacket neatly. Frank stepped out of the bathroom, hair dripping. "Rachel, grab me the hairdryer, would you?"

"It's on the second shelf of the bedroom closet," I replied.

"I can't find it," he said.

Seven years, and the hairdryer had never moved. I went and got it for him.

On Monday, while I was at work, Frank's mother, Susan Dawson, called me. "Rachel, Frank's father's back has been acting up. He wants to get it checked out at the state hospital."

"I hear you. Go on," I replied.

"Send over 3000 dollars. We need to see a specialist and get a full workup done," she said.

Three thousand dollars for a sore back.

I took a beat. "Susan, does Frank know about this?"

"Why bother him? He's busy with work. As his wife, isn't it your job to look after your husband's parents?" she replied.

"Okay, I'll transfer it in a bit," I said.

After I hung up, I dug through my old bank statements. Over the last three years, between medical bills, holidays, and replacing their appliances, I'd sent them nearly 30 thousand dollars. Frank had never once offered to split the bill.

I transferred the 3000 dollars, took a screenshot, and saved it to my notes.

In the afternoon, Sophie called. "I found someone. Henry Cole. He's a family law specialist. He's handled some real high-stakes divorces."

"When can we meet?" I asked.

"Rachel, what is going on with you?" Sophie asked.

"I'll tell you when I see you," I said.

"Tonight?" she asked.

"Works for me," I replied.

*****

That evening, I told Frank I was working late and headed to the café Sophie always frequented. Sophie was already there, sitting across from a man in glasses.

Henry looked to be in his early thirties, a black briefcase resting by his side. I sat down and skipped the small talk, handing over my phone immediately.

I pulled up the Excel sheets, the screenshots of bank records, the credit card statements, and the Yelp page.

Henry scrolled through every single one before handing the phone back. "You're an auditor?"

"CPA," I said.

"That explains it. This is more thorough than what most of my clients bring in." He pulled out a notebook. "How was the house handled?"

"The down payment was 200 thousand dollars. My parents covered 110 thousand dollars, and I put up 90 thousand dollars from my own savings. He didn't put in a cent. The mortgage is 2433 dollars a month, paid jointly since we got married," I said.

"Whose name is on the deed?" Henry asked.

"Both of ours," I replied.

"What about the car?" Henry asked.

"One car, in his name. We bought it after we got married for 66 thousand dollars total," I said.

"Any savings?" Henry asked.

"A little over 130 thousand dollars in our joint account. The card is in my possession. I'm not sure if he has a secret stash somewhere, but based on his records, he's basically living paycheck to paycheck," I said.

Henry scribbled a few lines, then looked up. "When do you plan on asking for a divorce?"

"I'm in no rush," I said.

Sophie lost it. "No rush? Rachel, he's cheating!"

I looked at her. "If I bring up divorce now, he'll refuse. He'll just stall and use the time to hide or transfer our money."

Henry nodded. "What's your plan?"

"Secure the family funds first," I said.

"And then?" Henry asked.

"And then I make him beg me for a divorce," I said.