By Monday morning, we had a plan.

Mark thought he was going to have a quiet transition. He thought he would live in his cozy cabin with my sister while I struggled to pay the mortgage on a house he had secretly drained of its value.

He was wrong.

2 weeks later, Diane and I met Mark and his attorney in a small, windowless conference room. Mark looked smug. He sat with his arms crossed, wearing a new shirt I had bought him for his birthday.

“Let’s make this quick,” Mark’s lawyer said. “My client is willing to let Mrs. Miller keep the house, provided she waives any claim to his pension and the Hocking Hills property.”

Diane didn’t smile. She just slid a manila envelope across the table.

“We’re not here to negotiate that,” Diane said calmly. “Inside that envelope is a forensic audit of the home equity line of credit approved on November 14 of last year. We have a certified statement from a handwriting analyst confirming Mrs. Miller’s signature was forged.”

Mark’s lawyer frowned, pulling the papers out. Mark’s smug expression wavered.

“We also have emails between Mr. Miller and a loan officer named Dave Harris, discussing how to ‘bypass’ the co-borrower verification,” Diane continued. “That is bank fraud. It is a federal offense.”

Mark went white as a sheet. He looked at his lawyer, then at me.

“Brenda, come on,” he stammered. “You wouldn’t do that. It would ruin me.”

“You ruined yourself, Mark,” I said. It was the first time I had spoken directly to him in 2 weeks. “Here is our deal. You sign over the deed to the cabin. You sign over the house. You sign over 60 percent of your retirement account to cover the funds you spent on your… other life. And you sign it today.”

“And if I don’t?” Mark whispered, his hands visibly shaking now.

“If you don’t,” Diane said, “we walk across the street to the prosecutor’s office. Eleanor Miller has already agreed to provide a deposition regarding the 10,000 dollars you obtained from her under false pretenses to fund the cabin’s down payment.”

Mark looked like he was going to throw up. He looked at his lawyer, hoping for a lifeline. The lawyer just slowly closed his folder and looked at the ceiling.