Chapter 6: The Number That Didn't Add Up
I landed in Maui at 4 p.m.
The suite was everything I had planned it to be.
Floor-to-ceiling glass facing the ocean.
A lanai with two chairs and a small table.
The kind of room that makes you breathe differently the moment you walk in.
I stood at the window for exactly one minute.
Then I opened my laptop.
For the past three years, I had been making regular transfers to a joint account Kevin and I had set up when his business hit a rough patch.
The arrangement was simple: I transferred a fixed amount each month, Kevin used it to cover the mortgage and business overhead, and when the business stabilized he would begin repaying.
We had a written agreement.
Carol had drafted it.
I pulled up the account.
The balance was not what it should have been.
I had transferred a total of $214,000 over thirty-one months.
The mortgage payments and documented business expenses accounted for roughly $180,000.
That left a gap of approximately $34,000 that had moved through the account in small increments — never more than $3,000 at a time — into a secondary account I did not recognize.
I wrote down the account number.
Then I called Carol.
"It's Ruth.
I know it's late there.
I need you to look at something tomorrow morning."
"What is it?"
"Transfers out of the joint account.
Into a number I don't recognize.
Thirty-four thousand over about eighteen months."
Carol was quiet for a moment.
"How regular were they?"
"Irregular.
Small.
Never the same amount twice."
"That's not accidental," she said.
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
"Do you want me to flag this for the forensic accountant I use, or do you want to handle it quietly first?"
"Flag it," I said.
"I want to know exactly what that account is and whose name is on it."
"I'll have something for you by Monday," Carol said.
"Ruth — are you all right?"
I looked out at the ocean.
The sun was getting low, turning the water copper and gold.
Somewhere on this island, my son and his family were checking into a hotel I had originally booked for all of us.
"I'm in a beautiful room," I said.
"I'm going to pour a glass of wine and watch the sun go down."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know," I said.
"I'll be all right, Carol.
Find me that account."
I poured the wine.
I sat on the lanai.
The sun went down exactly as promised, slow and generous, painting the whole sky before it left.
My phone lit up.
Kevin.
I watched his name on the screen until it stopped.
He left a voicemail.
I didn't listen to it.
Ten minutes later, a text.
*Mom.
I know you're upset.
We need to talk.
Please call me back.*
I set the phone face-down on the table.
Then it buzzed again.
Not Kevin this time.
Linda.
*Ruth.
I asked Jessica about the phone call.
Casually.
She said it was nothing, a spa booking.
But Kevin heard me ask and his face — Ruth, he looked frightened.
Not guilty.
Frightened.
There's a difference.*
I picked up the phone.
May you like
*Yes,* I wrote back.
*There is.*
