By half past two, four moving trucks stood idling in the drive of our house in the Hamptons.

I sat in a chair on the lawn with my daughter asleep in my arms and watched, through the tall windows, as a crew directed by Tamsin took the house apart from the inside.

The Italian leather.

The art.

The thirty-eight bottles of Bordeaux Camden liked to show important guests.

And, from the study, the heavy floor safe — inside it, on a single flash drive, the Ravenel Group’s off-the-books financial ledgers, which my husband had been careless enough to keep in a house whose security codes his wife had set.

I did not take those ledgers out of vengeance.