The next morning at ten o’clock, I sat in the law office of Arthur Vance. The office was located in a flat-roofed strip mall next to a dry cleaner, and the faint scent of chemical starch drifted through the air vents. I watched the fluorescent light overhead flicker twice before settling into a low, steady hum that made my temples ache.
Arthur Vance, my family lawyer, was sixty-one years old and moved with a heavy, deliberate slowness. He sat behind a gray metal desk, rubbing his temples as he read through a stack of our joint bank ledgers. His desk was cluttered with yellow legal pads and a half-empty mug of black coffee that had gone cold.
“He has been busy, Clara,” Arthur said, his slow, dry drawl matching the rhythm of his yellow pencil tapping the paper.
“What do you mean?” I asked, twisting my mother’s gold wedding band around my left ring finger.
Arthur slid a three-page bank statement across the desk. “The joint savings account had eighty-four thousand dollars in it at the end of October. Yesterday, the balance was twelve thousand.”
I looked at the column of numbers, the black ink small and clean on the page. My hands felt cold, and I pulled my sleeves down over my wrists. “Twelve thousand dollars?”
“Three separate transfers of twenty-four thousand each,” Arthur said. “They were sent to an account registered under a commercial taxpayer identification number.”
“Gabriel told me he was expanding the logistics warehouse in St. Paul,” I said. “He said it was a routine business development that would yield higher returns by spring.”
“A routine development does not require draining a personal savings account without the other spouse’s consent,” Arthur said. He turned to the second page of the statement, pointing to the dates of the transactions. “The first transfer was on the twelfth of last month, the second was a week later, and the third was just four days ago.”
“He usually sits in his home office until midnight on those days,” I said. “He told me he was working on client invoicing.”
Arthur took off his half-moon reading glasses and laid them on top of the financial files. “The numbers do not match what he reported on the joint tax return last year.”
“He said our personal savings were perfectly safe,” I said.
“They are not safe if they are being moved into accounts you cannot access,” Arthur said. He rubbed his eyes with his palm, his shoulders dropping slightly. “We need to file a motion for a temporary asset freeze before he moves the rest.”
“How much does it cost to file that?” I asked.
“The court filing fee is three hundred and fifty dollars, but my retainer for the contested motion will be two thousand,” Arthur said, looking at me with a quiet, steady gaze. “I know you do not have that in your personal account, Clara.”
“I can find it,” I said, though my throat felt dry as I spoke.
“Find his physical business records first,” Arthur said, leaning back in his creaking leather chair. “Look for anything with a different corporate name on it, especially any local filings.”
I stood up, the weight of the pregnancy making my lower back ache as I pulled my coat around myself. “I will look tonight.”
“Do not let him know you are looking,” Arthur said.
I walked out of the office and drove back to the house, the Buick windshield wipers scraping against the light sleet. The wet snow was sticking to the windshield of my Buick, making it hard to see the road, and the car’s heater only blew lukewarm air against my knees.
At one o’clock, I was standing in the kitchen when the back door opened. Gabriel walked in, carrying a leather briefcase and smelling of the damp outdoor air. He set his keys on the counter next to a carton of milk I had bought that morning for three dollars and forty cents.
“You look pale, Clara,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying that overly formal, patronizing tone he used when he wanted to end a conversation before it started.
“I was looking at our savings account online,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the laminate counter.
