Monday morning, I called Diane Chen.
Diane was my father's estate attorney before she was mine. She had handled my trust documents when I turned twenty-five, the prenuptial review Greyson had waved off as unnecessary, and every piece of legal paperwork that had my name on it and no one else's. She was discreet the way old money is discreet — not because she was asked to be, but because she understood that some things were only useful if they stayed quiet.
"Estate planning," I said. "Routine review. I'd like to bring in a forensic accountant for the asset inventory."
"Of course," Diane said. No pause. No question. "I'll have Marcus Hale reach out by end of day."
I thanked her and hung up.
I sat at my desk and looked out at the city for a moment. Then I opened my calendar and blocked the next two weeks as working from home.
---
Marcus Hale was a small, precise man who communicated in bullet points and never used two words where one would do. He called ten days later and asked if he could come by the office.
"My home office," I said. "Tuesday. Ten a.m."
He arrived exactly on time. He set a manila folder on my desk, opened it to the first tabbed section, and walked me through it without preamble.
Four years. Every month. Five thousand dollars.
The account was under the name Azari Dixon.
I looked at the transfer history. Clean, consistent columns. Dates, amounts, account numbers. The kind of document that didn't argue with you. It just sat there and told you the truth.
Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars. Give or take.
I turned to the next tab. The transfers originated from a joint investment account I had funded with my own Wells Enterprises distribution income. The account Greyson had suggested we open three months after our wedding. For our future, he had said. Smart to consolidate.
I closed the folder.
"Can you compile a fully court-ready summary?" I asked. "Timestamped. Sourced. Clean enough to project on a screen."
Marcus looked at me over his glasses. "Yes."
"Good." I stood. "Thank you, Marcus."
After he left, I sat back down. I did not move for a while. Outside, a siren passed. Somewhere in the building, a door closed.
Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars.
I picked up my pen and added a line to the list in my notebook. Then I went to make coffee.
---
The burner phone took me eleven minutes to find.
I had waited for a Thursday afternoon. Greyson had a client lunch that always ran long. I had exactly two hours.
His home office was orderly in the way of a man who wanted to appear organized without actually being so. I started with the desk. Then the filing cabinet. Then the bookshelf.
Third shelf. A financial law compendium, thick as a brick, wedged between two thinner volumes. I pulled it out. The spine was intact but the pages had been hollowed from the inside — a clean rectangular cut, deep enough for a slim black phone and a charging cable coiled around it.
I stood there for a moment with the book in my hands.
Then I sat down in his chair and turned the phone on.
The battery was at forty percent. No passcode — or rather, a passcode I found in the second message thread, sent by Greyson to himself from his regular phone two years ago. *1-0-1-4.* Our wedding date, reversed.
I almost laughed.
I read for two hours.
The messages between Greyson and Azari went back to the beginning. Four years of logistics, arrangements, careful language about money. There were threads about which accounts to use. Threads about timing. A long exchange from eighteen months ago where they had mapped out what Greyson called the transition — a detailed plan for how he would move enough of the Wells-Harrison portfolio into protected accounts before filing, so that the divorce settlement would leave him with something to stand on.
He had used the word *extraction*.
There was a thread from two years ago where Azari had sent him a photo of me, taken outside our building. *Your useful ATM with the famous last name*, she had written.
He had sent back a laughing emoji.
I screenshotted everything. Every thread. Every photo. Every plan.
I turned the phone off. I coiled the cable back around it exactly as I had found it. I slid it into the hollow of the book, closed the cover, and placed it back on the third shelf between the same two volumes.
I smoothed the spine with two fingers.
Then I walked to the kitchen and made myself a cup of black coffee.
I stood at the window and drank it while it was still hot. The city moved below me the way it always moved — indifferent, continuous, loud.
I finished the coffee. I rinsed the cup.
I went back to my desk and opened my notebook to a fresh page.
At the top, I wrote one word.
*Enough.*
