Chapter 7: The Man With the Anchor
His name was Gerald Foss.
He was not a contractor.
Carol called me at twelve forty-seven.
I was in my car in a parking lot, eating a sandwich I hadn't tasted.
"Gerald Foss is a licensed forensic accountant," she said.
"He specializes in asset concealment reviews for private family legal proceedings.
He has worked with four different family law firms in this area over the past six years."
I put the sandwich down.
"He was at Megan's house twice last month," I said.
"Which means Megan hired him, not Mark.
Or hired him on Mark's behalf with Mark's knowledge." A pause.
"Chloe, this tells us something important.
A forensic accountant at this stage means someone is building a picture of what assets exist, what can be restructured, and what can be moved before proceedings begin.
This is not a conversation between a husband and wife that got out of hand.
This has been in motion for some time."
"How long?"
"Based on what Zoe described — two visits, last month — I would estimate active planning for at least sixty to ninety days.
The conversation on the recording, three weeks ago, reads like a progress check.
Not a beginning."
I looked through the windshield at the parking lot.
A woman was loading groceries into a minivan.
Normal Friday afternoon.
"What do I do?"
"You've already done the right things.
You have the recording.
You have the financial statements you sent me this morning.
You have the identification of Foss." Her voice was steady.
"Now I need you to do one more thing before Monday."
"What?"
"I need you to get into that office."
I said nothing.
"I'm not asking you to take anything.
I'm asking you to photograph what's there.
Documents, files, anything with a letterhead or a signature.
Your phone, ten minutes, and then you walk out and put everything back exactly as it was."
"He keeps it locked."
"Is there another way in?
A window?
A connecting room?"
I thought about the layout of the second floor.
The office shared a wall with the guest bathroom.
There was no connecting door.
But the office window — it faced the side yard.
Single pane.
Original to the house.
"There might be a way," I said slowly.
"Then find it." She paused.
"I know this feels like a line, Chloe.
But you are equally entitled to the contents of that room.
You own half that house.
There is no line."
I drove home.
Mark was not back yet.
Lily was still at my mother's.
I went upstairs.
I went to the guest bathroom and opened the small window above the sink.
From there I could see the office window eighteen inches to the left, same height, same frame style.
The gap between them was a narrow ledge — the old decorative brickwork that ran along the second floor of the house.
Wide enough.
Barely.
I am not proud of what I did next.
But I did it.
Seven minutes later I was standing inside the office.
The desk had three folders stacked on the left side.
Each one had a label in Megan's handwriting.
The first said: *Property.*
The second said: *Accounts.*
The third said: *Lily — Custody Proposal.*
My hand stopped over the third folder.
*Custody Proposal.*
Not *custody agreement.* Not *parenting plan.* Proposal.
Already written.
Already titled.
I photographed every page of every folder.
Forty-one photographs in six minutes.
I put everything back.
I climbed back out.
I closed the guest window and sat down on the bathroom floor.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Mark.
*Running late.
Don't wait on dinner.*
I forwarded all forty-one photographs to Carol Vance.
Her reply came twelve minutes later.
*Call me when Lily is in bed.
May you like
This is worse than I expected.
But it also gives us everything we need.*
