Evelyn and I are dear friends. The retired paralegal who stopped me on the driveway saved my life, essentially, by trusting her instincts and telling me to go back in and listen. We have dinner every week. She says the whole thing made her feel young again — "one last case," she calls it, "and a good one." I owe her more than I can say.
I recovered a good portion of the stolen money, over time. Enough. The rest I've made peace with, because I've learned that the most expensive thing about being robbed by people you trust isn't the money. It's the trust. And that, you rebuild slowly, in yourself, with people who earn it.
I kept my career, obviously. I'm better at it now, if anything — turns out being personally betrayed by a two-year fraud sharpens an auditor's instincts considerably. I no longer have the small blind spot I used to have: the belief that the people closest to me were exempt from the scrutiny I applied to everyone else. Love is not an audit exemption. I learned that on a marble floor. I'll never unlearn it.
