‘We waited a long time, David,’ Deborah whispered. ‘Clara didn’t accidentally meet you at that trade show. We knew your business took off. We knew you had access to the accounts. We wanted to see how much you would steal from Susan to keep your little secret.’

My head was spinning. ‘You set me up,’ I whispered.

‘No,’ Deborah corrected. ‘You set yourself up. You wrote those fourteen hundred dollar checks. You logged them in the ledger. Every single one is a documented count of grand larceny and embezzlement from a joint business. Susan has the folder now.’

I hung up the phone. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped my keys on the floor of the Buick. I drove to the steakhouse in Dayton like a man walking to the gallows. I had to face them.

When I walked into the private dining room, the atmosphere was dead quiet. Susan was sitting at the head of the long table. Her sister and brother-in-law were there, but they weren’t looking at me. They were looking at the table. Deborah was sitting next to Susan, smiling coldly.

Right in front of Susan sat the cream-colored ledger. Beside it was a thick stack of bank statements, highlighted in bright yellow. Every single dummy check I had written for seven years was laid out like a deck of cards.

‘Susan,’ I started, my voice cracking. ‘I can explain. I was going to tell you tonight.’

Susan didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She looked up at me with eyes that were entirely clear. ‘You were going to tell me about the affair, David,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘But you weren’t going to tell me that you’ve been stealing my half of the business for seven years to pay your mistress.’

‘It’s not like that,’ I pleaded. ‘Clara is Deborah’s sister. They set a trap.’

‘I don’t care who Clara is,’ Susan said. She stood up, sliding her chair back. The screech of the wood against the floor was the loudest sound in the room. ‘The forensic accountant Deborah hired spent the last three days going through our Fifth Third Bank records. You embezzled over one hundred thousand dollars from our joint company.’

She reached into her purse and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was a certified divorce petition, already signed by her. ‘You are going to sign the business over to me tonight, David. Or the police will be waiting at our house when you get back.’

I looked at Deborah. She was leaning back in her chair, taking a slow sip of her wine. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The trap had closed, and the teeth were deep in my neck.

I signed the papers right there on the steakhouse table, my pen scratching against the polished wood. I had no choice. My business, my home, my reputation in Troy, Ohio, was gone in thirty seconds. Susan took the ledger, stood up, and walked out of the room. Her family followed her. Deborah was the last to leave. She paused at the door, looked back at me sitting alone at the empty table, and gave a small, polite nod. Then she closed the door.

That was three months ago. The business belongs entirely to Susan now. I am working as a line technician for a competitor, driving an old rusty van again. I live in a cheap motel near Dayton. I still don’t really know how to feel about any of it. I thought I was the one pulling the strings, but I was just the mark. I winced and looked at my hands, still smelling of motor grease. I guess some debts take twenty-five years to collect.