“The lawyers said the transfer sheets just need your last signature,” she said, her voice lifting into that pleasant lilt.

“Once that’s done, we can finally relax and let the board deal with the day-to-day headaches.”

I stared down at the dark grain of the mahogany table.

“Where did the divorce files from three years back end up?” I asked.

Her hand stayed on my shoulder, but her fingers froze for two whole seconds.

“Why would you want those old papers tonight?” she asked.

“The audit team wants the March tax schedules,” I lied.