My days belonged to a newborn — the feedings, the sleeplessness, the slow animal work of keeping a small person alive — and my nights, once he was down, belonged to something else entirely: a laptop, a legal pad, a cold cup of tea, and the patient reconstruction of my husband’s hidden life.

I would nurse my son to sleep and then sit down and trace a wire transfer through four shell entities across two countries, and there was something in that work that stitched me back together.

Because it required me to be, again, the person Luke had spent nine years convincing me I wasn’t: sharp, precise, capable, undismissible.

Every account I untangled was a small proof that my mind still worked the way it always had.

Daniel was a good teacher and a better partner in it — he never once condescended to me, never explained my own field back to me the way Luke had, but treated me as what I was, a colleague who happened to be his client, whose instincts about where the money was hidden turned out, again and again, to be right.