I had just lost my job when my husband coldly announced, "Your parents aren't getting Christmas gifts this year," then spent $2,300 spoiling his own family.

The warrant came through on a Thursday.

Martin called me at 8:40 in the morning.

I was at my parents' house — I had been staying in my old bedroom since January second, sleeping under the same quilt my mother had made when I was seventeen.

"They opened the unit an hour ago," he said.

I sat up.

"And?"

"It's substantial." He paused, and I had known Martin long enough to know that a pause from him meant he was choosing words carefully.

"There are physical files.

Printed bank records, correspondence, signed documents.

There's also a hard drive."

"Whose files?"

"Northstar's.

But also—" Another pause.

"Phoebe, there are files in there that predate Northstar by two years.

Vendor contracts.

Payment authorizations.

Some of them have your company's letterhead."

I was quiet.

"Julian had access to your work files," Martin said.

It wasn't a question.

"He used my home office sometimes.

When I traveled." I thought about the laptop I kept on the desk.

The one I had replaced eight months ago because it was running slowly.

The one I had wiped and donated without thinking twice.

"He knew my passwords.

We shared a home network."

"The contracts in that storage unit — some of them appear to have been altered.

Vendor names changed.

Payment amounts adjusted.

Then reprinted on your company's letterhead."

My hand tightened on the phone.

"He was building a parallel record.

A false version of my work history."

"That's what it looks like."

I stood up and walked to the window.

The yard was gray and cold, the garden my mother kept immaculate all summer now just bare soil and frost.

"Martin.

How long has he been doing this?"

"The earliest document we've found so far is dated thirty-one months ago."

Thirty-one months.

Two and a half years.

I had still been employed.

Still been trusted.

Still been the person Julian introduced at dinner parties as "my wife, the compliance officer."

"He was going to frame me," I said.

"If Northstar had ever come under investigation — and it would have, eventually — yes.

You would have been the named managing member with a documented history of altering vendor contracts at your previous employer.

He would have been the spouse who knew nothing."

I sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Phoebe." Martin's voice was careful.

"Are you all right?"

"No," I said.

"But I will be."

My mother knocked on the door and opened it slightly.

She read my face in one second.

She came in, sat beside me on the bed, and put her hand over mine without saying a word.

"What do you need from me right now?" Martin asked.

"I need you to find every document in that unit," I said.

"Every single one.

I want to know the full scope before Julian's lawyer does."

"We're already working on it."

"And Martin — Leo.

Where is he?"

"He hasn't been home since Tuesday.

His car is gone.

Diane Calloway's apartment is empty."

I looked at my mother's hand over mine.

"He ran," I said.

"It appears so."

"He'll have taken copies of things.

Things he thinks he can use as leverage if Julian turns on him." I thought about the chopping gesture in the backyard, Julian's hand moving while he gave instructions.

*Do this now.

Before it's too late.* "Julian told him to run.

And Leo took the insurance policy with him."

Martin was quiet for a moment.

"That's a reasonable read."

"Find Diane," I said.

"Leo goes where she goes.

And Diane has a sister in Raleigh.

I met her at Easter.

Her name is Patrice."