Paper-clipped behind the legal pages was a printed brokerage summary.

Across the top of it was the account number of my private retirement account — an account I had never discussed with Shirley, never shown her, never so much as mentioned in her presence in my life.

And beneath the number was the balance: four hundred eighty-two thousand, three hundred sixteen dollars.

I stared at that figure.

There was no way on earth Shirley should have had it.

That account was mine, private, known to almost no one — and then the memory came rushing back, and the floor of my stomach dropped out of me.