I saw her hand pause midair.
“Oh? What about the future?”
“Well,” I lied smoothly. “I was thinking about the inheritance coming in from my dad. It’s a lot of money to manage. I was telling Richard maybe we should just donate a huge chunk of it, start a new foundation, you know, give back to the world instead of hoarding it.”
Monica choked on her tea. She coughed violently, setting the cup down with a clatter.
“Donate it? All of it?”
“Not all of it.” I smiled, a shark-like baring of teeth. “But most. Richard and I don’t have children. We don’t have anyone to leave a legacy to. Why keep millions sitting around when we live so simply?”
Panic flitted across her eyes. She rubbed her belly unconsciously, a protective gesture.
“But Laura, surely you want to keep some for security. Or what if you guys try for a baby again? Surrogacy is expensive.”
“No,” I sighed, looking out the window at the garden. “Richard thinks I’m too old, and honestly, maybe he’s right. Maybe some bloodlines just aren’t meant to continue. Besides, karma has a way of working things out. If you do good, you get good. If you lie and cheat… well, you end up with nothing.”
I turned my gaze back to her. I locked eyes with her. For a second, the air in the room went still. I saw a flicker of genuine fear in her pupils. Did she know I knew?
Then she forced a laugh, high and brittle.
“Wow, that’s heavy for a Wednesday morning. You’re so noble, Laura. But Richard—does he agree? He works so hard. He deserves to enjoy that money.”
“Richard agrees with whatever I say,” I said coldly. “He knows who holds the purse strings.”
Monica shifted uncomfortably in her seat.“Well, speaking of babies, the little guy is kicking up a storm today.” She lifted her sweater slightly, showing off the curve of her belly. “Do you want to feel?”
It was a power move. A cruel, twisted power move to remind me of what she had and I didn’t. She thought it would make me cry. She thought I would crumble.
I stared at her exposed skin. That was my husband’s child. Half of his DNA was knitting together inside her.
“No thanks,” I said flatly. “I’m not really a baby person anymore. I think I’m over it.”
Monica looked stunned. I was supposed to be the weeping, desperate, infertile woman. My indifference threw her off script.
“Oh. Okay.” She pulled her sweater down. “Well, I just wanted to remind you about the baby shower next month. I know it’s a lot to ask, but since you offered to host—”
“I’m still hosting,” I interrupted. “In fact, I want to make it bigger. Let’s invite everyone. Richard’s colleagues, my family, all our mutual friends. Let’s make it a massive celebration.”
Monica’s eyes lit up. Greed. She loved being the center of attention, especially on my dime.
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I want to give you a party that no one will ever forget.”
She beamed, oblivious to the threat hidden in my promise.
“You’re the best friend ever, Laura. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You’d be broke and alone, I thought.
“I have to run,” I said, standing up abruptly. “I have a meeting with my financial advisor to discuss the donation.”
Monica stood up so fast she nearly knocked the chair over.
“Right. Yes. Don’t do anything rash though, okay? Talk to Richard first.”
“I always talk to Richard,” I said, walking her to the door.
As she walked to her beat-up Honda Civic—which I knew Richard was planning to replace with a Range Rover using my money—I pulled out my phone. I dialed the number for the best forensic accountant in the state.
“This is Laura Reynolds,” I said when the receptionist answered. “I need to book an urgent consultation. I suspect high-level marital fraud and asset dissipation, and I need a team who can work quietly.”
The game was on. Monica wanted a party. I was going to give her a spectacle.
The forensic accountant, a man named Mr. Henderson with glasses thick enough to see into the future, had given me a checklist. Get the hard drive. Get the tax returns. Check the credit reports.
Two days after Monica’s visit, Richard went on an overnight “business trip” to Portland. I knew he wasn’t in Portland. The Find My iPhone feature he thought he had disabled on our shared Family Cloud account showed his iPad—which he took with him—pinging at a luxury resort two hours north. And guess whose phone was pinging at the same location?
Monica’s.
I didn’t cry this time. I felt a cold, clinical precision taking over. I waited until I was sure they were settled in. Then I went into Richard’s home office. He kept it locked, but I had the master key to every door in this house. I paid for the locks, after all.
The room smelled of stale coffee and secrets. I sat at his massive mahogany desk, another gift from me, and booted up his desktop computer. Password-protected, of course.
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