My wife sl@pped my five-year-old daughter for touching a piece of bread, so I struck her back.

Her full name was Deborah Crane.

Patricia found that out within forty-eight hours, through a combination of the silver car Mason had described, a partial plate number he had somehow memorized, and a DMV search her paralegal ran on a Tuesday afternoon.

She called me while I was on my lunch break.

"Deborah Crane," she said.

"Thirty-four.

She and Vanessa were in the same college sorority.

They stayed close." A pause.

"She's also listed as a co-signer on a savings account that Vanessa opened fourteen months ago."

I set down my sandwich.

"What kind of account?"

"A joint savings account.

Not connected to your household finances.

Separate bank, separate address on file — Deb's address." Another pause, longer this time.

"The account currently holds forty-one thousand dollars."

The number sat in the air.

"Where did that money come from?" I asked.

"That's what we're working on.

We've requested financial disclosure as part of the separation filing.

Vanessa will have to account for it." Patricia's voice was careful and even.

"Michael, I want to be straightforward with you.

This account was opened three months after your marriage.

The deposits are regular and consistent.

They look like transfers."

"From our joint account."

"Possibly.

Possibly from other sources.

We don't have the full picture yet.

But I want you to go through your household bank statements for the last fourteen months and flag anything that looks irregular.

Transfers you didn't authorize, withdrawals you don't recognize, anything over five hundred dollars that you can't account for."

I was already thinking backward through fourteen months.

The renovation estimate we never moved forward on.

The car repair that cost twice what the shop quoted.

The weekend Vanessa said she'd paid cash for a girls' trip to Portland and I hadn't asked to see a receipt because why would I.

"I'll pull the statements tonight," I said.

"Good.

One more thing." Patricia's voice shifted slightly — not softer, but more deliberate.

"Vanessa called my office this morning."

"She called you?

You're my lawyer."

"She called to inform me that she intends to file a counter-complaint regarding the incident at the dinner table.

Specifically, that you sl@pped her without provocation in front of the children."

"She sl@pped Lily first."

"I know.

Mason's recording captures the sequence clearly.

But she is going to file, and I want you prepared for that." A brief pause.

"She also said something else.

She said, and I'm quoting directly — 'Tell Michael I know about the life insurance policy on Claire.'"

The kitchen at my office went completely silent around me.

Claire was Lily's mother.

Claire had been gone for three years.

A car accident on a Tuesday morning, two weeks before Lily's second birthday.

I had not touched the life insurance payout.

It was sitting in a protected account I had set up for Lily's future — college, a house deposit, whatever she needed when she was grown.

I had never spent a dollar of it.

"She's suggesting you profited from your first wife's death," Patricia said.

"She won't be able to prove that because there's nothing to prove.

But she wants you rattled."

My hand was tight around the phone.

"She knew about Claire," I said.

"I told her about Claire when we were dating.

I told her about the account.

I told her it was for Lily."

"I know.

And we will demonstrate exactly that." Patricia's voice was firm and clear.

"Michael.

She is throwing everything she has.

That means she knows what she's sitting on is not strong.

People who have a solid case don't need to mention dead wives." A pause.

"Pull those bank statements.

And don't contact Vanessa directly.

Not for any reason."

"Understood."

I hung up.

I sat in the break room for a long moment, staring at the wall.

She had known about Claire.

She had sat across from me at dinner for two years, had slept in the same bed, had looked at Lily every single day — and she had stored that name away like a weapon, waiting for the moment she might need it.

I thought about Lily at five years old, hiding drawings under a mattress.

I thought about Mason pressing record.

I picked up my phone and texted Ruth: *Can you stay with the kids tonight?