The first tremor came on a Tuesday, when my intercom buzzed and my secretary announced that my relationship director from Standard Premier Trust was waiting in the VIP lounge.

His name was Gerald, meticulously groomed, and he slid a dossier across the table with a tight, apologetic smile.

“Loretta, we simply needed verbal authentication on a sudden surge of activity on your authorized-user accounts.”

“The secondary cards issued to my husband?” I asked, feeling a knot pull tight in my stomach.

“Precisely.

Over the past eight weeks, the expenditure velocity has become extremely aggressive.”

I opened the folder, and the data sharpened into a mosaic of betrayal.