If Weston had altered the records to make me sign, the question was: sign what? And why had they been in such a hurry — the divorce papers three days after my last treatment, the settlement rushed through before I could think?
I went back to the foundation’s finances, the ones I’d been too destroyed to examine during the divorce, and I brought in a forensic auditor to look with clear eyes where mine had been clouded.
Delphine had been thorough.
As my finance director, she’d had access to everything, and she’d used it.
She had copied my signature — a signature she’d watched me make a thousand times — onto transfer documents, and moved nearly two million dollars out of accounts meant for women who needed health screenings, and into a private consulting firm.
The firm was registered quietly, through layers, but the auditor traced it: Delphine owned it.
And her silent partner, the co-owner whose name sat one shell company back from the light, was Weston.
There it was, in the cold arithmetic of a spreadsheet.
They had not merely fallen in love and betrayed me, as ugly as that would have been.
They had run a plan.