Emily had been suspicious for months, she told me, long before she had proof.

It had started small — the way Rebecca kept steering conversations toward my finances, asking about the deed to the Greenwich house, about my will, about the investments I’d built over thirty years of running my food distribution company.

Rebecca had begun, gently, insistently, to press me to merge our finances after the wedding, to revise my will “for the next chapter of our lives,” and Emily had watched it happening and had felt the wrongness of it before she could name it.

So she had started looking.