She was fifty-two, precise, and carried the calm that only comes from years of doing this work.

She read through the statements without a flicker of drama.

“This isn’t just careless spending,” she said at last. “Your husband has been moving money through accounts you didn’t know existed.” She pointed to a string of transfers labeled P. Morgan Consulting. “Who’s P. Morgan?”

“Patricia Morgan,” I said. “Travis’s mother.” “She owns a consulting firm?”

“She works part-time at a beauty supply store.”

Denise and my father exchanged a look.