One folder appeared.

It was named, simply, REBECCA.

Inside were screenshots of messages, photographs of documents, bank records — and a video, filmed inside my own home.

Emily had recorded it in secret from a hallway, her phone low, her breathing quiet.

And on it, unmistakable, was Rebecca’s voice, saying to my daughter, in a calm that was worse than any shouting: “By the time your father understands what’s happening, the house, the accounts, everything he spent his life building — it will already belong to me.” And then the recording caught the sound of the thing Noah had been trying to tell me in the corridor — my future wife striking my daughter — and I will not describe it, because it was my child, and some things a father does not put into words.

I only know that when it was over I was not the same man who had sat down.