“You didn’t move the money?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Don’t mistake that for trust.”
“I don’t.”
I stood and walked toward the hallway.
The coat closet door stuck slightly, as it always did in dry weather. I pulled it open, pushed aside winter jackets, and crouched before the safe.
My fingers moved over the keypad.
My birthday.
Lucas had insisted it was too obvious. I had joked that burglars didn’t know my birthday. He had smiled and said, “I do.”
The safe clicked.
Inside, at first, everything seemed normal.
Passports.
House deed.
Insurance files.
A small velvet box containing my mother’s pearl earrings.
Then I noticed the gap.
The blue legal folder was gone.
I remembered it immediately. My father’s estate documents. Copies of trust paperwork. Records showing the inheritance had been mine before the marriage.
My throat tightened.
“He took the folder,” I said.
Grace inhaled on the other end of the line.
“Then he’s further along than I thought.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he isn’t only planning to leave you. He may be planning to argue that the money was marital property.”
I sank back on my heels.
“That won’t work,” I said, though I wasn’t sure.
