If the IRS ever came looking for that 240,000 dollars, Mark’s name was on the dotted line. Arthur was the primary owner, but Mark was the corporate president on paper.

I knew I couldn’t just go to the police without solid proof. Arthur was too well-liked.

He would just say it was a clerical error or that Mark had authorized it and forgotten. So I saved up some of my own personal money from my side sewing business.

I repaired heavy-duty canvas jackets for local hunters and farmers. I clipped coupons even harder, buying the cheap store-brand coffee and skipping my monthly hair appointments.

I needed 3,000 dollars to hire Marcus Vance. I found Marcus through a cousin who worked in county administration.

We met at that motel office because it was the only place we wouldn’t be seen by Arthur’s friends. I remember the first time I walked into that room.

It smelled like old carpet and cheap wood cleaner. Marcus was a quiet, heavy-set man who listened to me without interrupting.

I showed him the copies of the forged signatures. He nodded slowly and said he would look into where the money was actually going.

We met three times over the next month. Each time, I got into his silver sedan in the parking lot to talk so we wouldn’t be seen standing in the lobby.

But I didn’t know Arthur was watching me. Arthur must have noticed me asking questions about the Vance Forestry invoices.

He must have realized I was getting too close to his navy blue binder. So he started following me.

And when he saw me meeting a man in a motel parking lot, he thought he had won. He thought he had the perfect weapon to get me fired and divorced.

Now, here we were in my kitchen. The manila envelope was empty, the glossy photos scattered across the granite island.

“Mark, look at me,” I said, my voice shaking as I stepped closer to him. “I didn’t do this.”

Mark didn’t look at me. His face was pale, and his hands were clenched into tight fists by his sides.

“Then why are you getting into his car, Ellen?” Mark asked, his voice cracking. “Why are you going into a motel room with him?”

Arthur walked in from the living room then. He had his coffee cup in one hand, his fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug.

He looked at me with a soft, patronizing smile. It made my jaw lock.

“Mark, son, we don’t have to make a scene,” Arthur said, his voice incredibly calm. “She made her choice. We just need to handle this quietly.”

He set his coffee down and looked at me with cold, triumphant eyes.

“You should go pack your things, Ellen,” he added, turning his eyes to me. “Before this gets any uglier for your family.”