Not when she came over for Sunday dinner and kissed my cheek, tasting like the wine he had smuggled into her house.

Not when I sat across from them, smiling with my soul bleeding behind my teeth.

I didn’t say 1 word. I just gathered the evidence.

I had printed 50 pages of screenshots. I had compiled bank statements. I had hired the most vicious d*vorce attorney in the city.

And I had made 1 very important phone call.

My cell phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up.

It was Sarah’s husband, Greg.

“She’s on her way back,” I said into the receiver.

“I know,” Greg replied. His voice was flat. Exhausted. “The moving truck just finished. Her bags are on the lawn.”

Greg and I had been working together for 2 weeks. He had suspected something for months, but when I called him with the tablet evidence, it broke him. We sat in a diner 2 towns over, drinking terrible diner coffee, planning exactly how we would dismantle their lives.

Greg was a forensic accountant. He knew exactly where Sarah was hiding money. He knew exactly how to freeze their joint accounts legally.

“Did you call your brother?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

My brother was the senior partner at Mark’s accounting firm. Mark had spent 15 years clawing his way up the corporate ladder, desperate for a partnership. He was supposed to be promoted next month.

Instead, my brother had spent the morning drafting termination papers for violation of the firm’s morality clause and misappropriation of company funds. The funds Mark had embezzled to pay for Sarah’s hotel rooms.

At exactly 6:00 PM, the front door unlocked.

Mark walked in. He tossed his keys into the brass bowl on the console table.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called out, his voice thick with fake exhaustion. “Sorry I’m late. Crazy day at the office.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table. The granite was cold against my forearms.