I gathered my daughter up, practically carrying her to the truck, and blasted the heat. I drove her to my house, got her into a warm shower, and made her a cup of tea. I sat by her bed until she finally fell into an exhausted, trauma-heavy sleep.

Then, I went to my home office. I didn’t sleep a wink. I opened my heavy fireproof safe and pulled out a thick hard drive I hadn’t looked at in five years. You see, a good forensic accountant never just “fixes” a problem without keeping the receipts.

I had kept every original, unedited ledger. Every email where he explicitly directed the illegal transfer of funds. Every piece of evidence that proved he was running a localized Ponzi scheme before I stepped in. And over the last few hours, pulling a few favors with old colleagues still in the banking sector, I managed to track exactly where the money from Anna’s house went.

It went straight into an account under the mistress’s name—textbook fraud and asset hiding during a marriage. By 7:00 AM, my sorrow had completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. I printed everything out. I placed the massive stack of documents, bank statements, and wire transfer logs into a plain, thick manila envelope.

At 8:30 AM, I pulled up to his downtown luxury building. I bypassed the doorman—knowing the security codes from when they originally toured the building—and rode the elevator up to the penthouse floor. I pounded on his heavy oak door. Mark answered in a silk bathrobe, holding a half-empty glass of champagne.

His mistress was lounging on the sofa behind him, laughing at something on the television. When he saw me, his initial shock quickly melted into a smug, arrogant smirk. “Well, well,” he sneered, taking a sip of his drink. “Here to beg for that loser?” I didn’t say a single word.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t threaten him. I simply stepped forward, violating his personal space, and forced him to step back. I walked past him into his pristine, expensive living room, dropped the heavy manila envelope squarely in the center of his glass coffee table, and turned around.

I walked out the door, letting it click shut behind me. I barely made it to my truck in the parking garage before my phone started ringing. It was Mark. I let it ring. He called back. I let it ring again. By the time I started the engine, he was on his fifth call.