“The twelve-dollar fee,” he said.

“That’s the piece that never made sense.”

“It was a fee for a member transfer.

Not a billing fee.”

“Right.” He lined the folder up with the edge of his blotter.

“So as of this morning this isn’t a divorce conversation anymore.”

“Say the rest.”

“Three years of payments obtained with invoices for services no one received, routed through an insured financial institution, into an account controlled by your husband’s mother.” He spoke slowly, as though reading it off the wall behind me.