Chapter 3 - THE ACCOUNTI didn't drive to my parents' house.
I drove to a hotel.
The cheapest one I could find with a kitchenette.
I checked in under my maiden name.
Then I put the babies to bed.
At midnight, I opened my laptop.
I logged into our bank.
The joint savings account was almost empty.
I scrolled through the transactions.
Transfer.
Transfer.
Transfer.
Thousands of dollars at a time.
Every transfer had been sent to the same external account.
The final four digits were unfamiliar.
I called the bank.
After security questions, the representative told me something that made my blood run cold.
“Ma'am, this transfer history goes back eleven months.”
Eleven months.
That meant Brandon had started moving our money before the twins were born.
“Can you tell me who owns the receiving account?”
“I can't disclose that.”
“It's my money.”
“I understand.”
“Then what can I do?”
“You can file a fraud investigation.”
I stared at the screen.
Fraud.
Was Brandon stealing from me?
Or was there something bigger?
The next morning, I called my friend Lauren.
She was an attorney.
Not a family lawyer.
Corporate law.
But she knew enough to point me in the right direction.
“Don't confront him again,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you need evidence.”
“I already have bank records.”
“That isn't enough.”
She paused.
“Emily, if he moved seventy thousand dollars without your knowledge, you need to know where it went.”
“I think another woman is involved.”
Lauren was silent.
“Do you have proof?”
“No.”
“Then don't accuse him yet.”
She gave me the number of a forensic accountant.
I called him.
By the afternoon, he had reviewed the first set of statements.
He found something strange.
“Your husband wasn't simply transferring money.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was splitting it.”
“Meaning?”
“Some went to one account. Some went to another. Some was withdrawn in cash.”
“How much cash?”
“Approximately seventeen thousand over six months.”
My heart pounded.
“Why would someone do that?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether your husband was trying to hide money, pay someone, or prepare for something.”
“Something like what?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he asked:
“Does your husband own any businesses?”
“No.”
“Properties?”
“No.”
“Debts?”
I hesitated.
“He has a car loan.”
“Any lawsuits?”
“No.”
He looked at another document.
Then stopped.
“Actually…”
“What?”
“There are payments to a company called Carter Family Holdings.”
I frowned.
“That's not his business.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then who owns it?”
He searched.
Then looked up.
“The registered owner is your mother-in-law.”
I felt cold.
My mother-in-law.
Margaret Carter.
The woman who had spent months telling me I was "too emotional" because I cried when the twins cried.
The woman who always defended Brandon.
I called her.
She didn't answer.
Ten minutes later, Brandon called.
His voice was sharp.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“Emily, don't do anything stupid.”
“I'm asking you a question.”
“You need to come home.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother knows everything.”
My heart stopped.
“Knows what?”
He breathed heavily.
Then said:
“She knows what happened before the twins were born.”
I sat down.
“What happened?”
Silence.
“Brandon?”
May you like
He whispered,
“The girls weren't supposed to come home with you.”
