a narrow office above a bakery, with law books stacked on the floor and no patience for dramatic speeches. She read Nathan’s affidavit, then read it again. When she finished, she took off her glasses.
“Your husband is either reckless,” she said, “or very organized.”
“He’s organized when he wants something.”
“Then we assume every move has a purpose. What does he want most?”
I almost said Leanne.
Then I shook my head.
“The company.”
Naomi nodded.
“And what does he need you to do?”
“Sign it away.”
“Good. Then we do not give him what he needs. We collect what he missed.”
At first, I thought there was nothing.
Nathan had the office computers. He had the files. He had staff too frightened or too loyal to talk. But he had underestimated the part of me he used to mock: my habit of keeping copies.
Not because I distrusted him.
Because old houses taught me to.
Cole Heritage Homes restored historic properties along the South Carolina coast. Every project had permits, drawings, invoices, inspection notes, preservation approvals, photographs, contracts, and revised contracts. One missing document could delay a closing for months. I backed up everything. I emailed myself scans. I kept duplicate folders. I stored old drives in a weatherproof box in our garage because hurricanes did not care about filing cabinets.
The garage was attached to the house Nathan had changed the locks on.
But he forgot about the potting shed.
The house sat at the end of a live oak lane outside Charleston, white columns, blue shutters, and an image carefully cultivated for donors and magazine photographers. Behind it, nearly hidden by camellias, was a small shed with a warped green door. Years earlier, the lock broke. Nathan said he would fix it. He never did.
Tessa drove me there at dawn on a Sunday when the neighborhood was still and wet with fog.
“This is insane,” she whispered from the driver’s seat.
“It’s my shed.”
“He’ll call the police.”
“Then he can explain why I’m trespassing at my own marital home.”
My hands shook as I crossed the lawn. I expected Nathan to appear at every window. I expected Leanne to step onto my porch in my robe. But the house remained dark.
The shed smelled of dirt, rust, and old rain. I found the storage box under a cracked clay planter and dragged it into the gray light.
Inside were three hard drives, two notebooks, and a stack of envelopes sealed in freezer bags.
Tessa covered her mouth.
“You beautiful, paranoid woman.”
“Prepared,” I said, though I was crying.
The drives gave Naomi enough to start pulling threads.
Payments Nathan claimed I had authorized were made from an IP address inside his private office. Client deposits he said I diverted had been moved into a vendor account connected to a company registered under Leanne’s brother’s name. My electronic signature appeared on documents dated during a week when I was in Asheville caring for Tessa after surgery.
Then we found the safety deposit box.
Not physically. Not yet.
A scanned bank notice sat inside an old email archive from an address Nathan thought I no longer used. The box had been opened under both our names, but I had never signed for it. Naomi subpoenaed the
