They thought grief had made me slow and love had made me blind.

I let them keep thinking it.

Because the wife they’d written into their story didn’t own a security system she’d stopped mentioning years ago, didn’t know how to read a rerouted bank statement, didn’t have a forensic accountant’s number in a drawer from an old board fight.

That wife was convenient.

And I was going to be exactly as convenient as they needed me to be, right up until the morning it was too late for any of them to do anything about it.

Chapter 6 — What a Careful Woman Notices