She gave me the name of a family attorney she trusted.
I called the office and scheduled the earliest available appointment.
Inside the drawer containing the permits, Marissa also found a small leather notebook filled with passwords in Brian’s cramped handwriting. She read the bank login aloud while I typed, and together we opened our joint account on my phone.
There it was.
Years of slow, calculated withdrawals.
Small transfers sent to accounts I had never known existed.
Brian had not only betrayed me.
He had been preparing his escape while I remained in darkness.
I barely slept that night.
By nine the following morning, I sat inside the attorney’s office, spreading photographs and screenshots across her desk. She listened carefully, asked brief questions, and wrote notes while nodding.
She sent me home with an initial folder, a checklist, a preservation letter, and a draft request for financial disclosure. Then she told me to wait until she contacted me.
By evening, the folder rested on the kitchen counter, and another appointment had been scheduled for the end of the week.
Then I heard the front door open.
Brian’s voice floated through the house, relaxed and cheerful.
I stood in the living room.
A strand of Christmas lights I had discovered in the hallway closet—not the garage—glowed gently across the couches.
Brian walked in.
The color left his face the instant he saw me standing without my cane.
“Gina?”
