“He thinks he’s coming home to a fortune,” Mr. Harrison said.

But as I flipped backward through the yellowed pages, the grief in me turned into something else. The older entries were wrong. Twenty years ago — the year Marcus and I married — regular deposits of ten thousand dollars began appearing, month after month.

Then, not long after, the sums went erratic and enormous. Fifty thousand. A hundred thousand.

I squinted at the faded ink beside them, at the name that made my blood go cold.

Horizon Builders.

My husband wasn’t only an adulterer. He was a criminal. And I was holding the proof.