That was the plain fact she kept returning to in the dark.

The instinct she’d been half-ashamed of — the lawyer’s reflex that assumes the worst and documents against it — was the only reason she was not already dead and liquidated and forgotten.

Chandler had counted on a wife who trusted him.

He had married, instead, a woman whose entire professional life had taught her that the people closest to the money are the people to watch, and who had watched, and who had written it all down.

He had spent months believing he was dismantling a helpless woman.

He had never once considered that the helpless woman had built the trap he was about to step into, and signed it, and left it waiting in a bank.