Ethan didn’t follow me into the bedroom. He didn’t have to. In his head, the story was over: he’d dropped the bomb, I’d surrendered, and now he got to slide into a clean new life with a woman who wore white coats without fear of stains.
But the lockbox wasn’t sentimental. It was forensic.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I opened the box. Inside were copies of bank statements,
