I tried his birthday. Incorrect.
I tried our anniversary. Incorrect.
I tried “Monica.” Incorrect.
I paused, thinking. Richard was arrogant, but he was also sentimental about his triumphs. I typed in the due date of Monica’s baby.
Access granted. shiver of revulsion went down my spine, but I ignored it. I plugged in the external hard drive Mr. Henderson had given me. While the data transferred, I started opening folders.
The folder labeled “Project Phoenix” caught my eye. I clicked it. It wasn’t a business plan. It was an exit strategy.
There were PDFs of brochures for villas in Costa Rica. There were bank statements for an account I didn’t know existed—an account under the name of a shell company called Phoenix Consulting. I opened the statements. My breath hitched.
Transfer: $5,000 – “Consulting fee.”
Transfer: $12,000 – “Marketing services.”
Transfer: $25,000 – “Seed capital.”
I cross-referenced the dates with our joint checking account. Every time Richard had asked me for money for his “startup costs” or “overhead,” he had immediately funneled it into this private account.
And the withdrawals:
$1,500 – Tiffany & Co.
The bracelet I saw Monica wearing last week.
$2,800 – The Stork’s Nest Luxury Baby Gear.
$3,200 – Emerald City Obstetrics.
He was funding her entire lifestyle and their future getaway with my money. The total amount siphoned over the last two years was nearly $280,000.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
I found a digital folder labeled “Legal.” Inside was a draft of a custody agreement—for me. I opened it, confused. Why would there be a custody agreement? We didn’t have children.
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