screenshots of text messages, and a little spiral notebook where I’d recorded things that didn’t add up—because postpartum hormones or not, I was still an accountant.

Two months earlier, I’d noticed Ethan’s paycheck hitting our joint account and draining out again in strange, jagged chunks. “Work stuff,” he’d said. “Tools. Travel expenses.” Except he didn’t travel. And he hadn’t bought a new tool since our wedding day.

I had started taking pictures of everything. Every receipt left in a pocket. Every weird withdrawal.