First he would see the empty penthouse and think the story was theft — that his wife had cleaned him out in a fury, which was a story he could tell himself, a story in which he was wronged.

Then he would come to the office and see the desk gone and think the story was pettiness — spite, a scorned woman taking his grandfather’s furniture.

And only then, picking up the papers beneath the hard drive, would he understand that none of it was fury or spite, that it had all been something far colder and more complete: a case.

Every item removed had been removed lawfully.

Every dollar traced.

Every fraud highlighted in yellow so bright a child could follow it.