But it looked like the beginning of a financial plan.

And my house was the largest number on it.

I photographed the page where it lay.

Then placed it back.

For the first time, I stopped wondering whether Oliver was simply financially careless.

I began wondering whether the marriage itself was part of a plan he’d already calculated.

The next afternoon, a blue sedan pulled up beside my mailbox.

Chelsea was behind the wheel.

She was nineteen.

Oliver’s niece.