Lauren scribbled furiously.

“So Ethan became her financial savior.” “I thought he was just being a supportive husband to my friend.”

“Or,” Lauren said softly, “that’s when the foundation of the affair was laid, and he realized he needed capital to play the hero.” A montage of sickening memories flooded my brain.

Rachel pulling up to my house in a pristine, late-model SUV she called a “miracle lease deal.” The sudden appearance of Prada bags she swore were thrifted.

The weekend spa retreats she brushed off as “Groupon steals.” I hadn’t questioned any of it, because my default setting with her was absolute trust. My laptop chimed.

The bank’s fraud department had delivered the expanded transfer logs. We leaned in, practically shoulder to shoulder. The PDF decoded the mystery of account 4492.