I crept into my own bathroom. The house was my late grandmother's — paid off, deed in my name alone for eight years before I met Eric.
Through the vents I heard them. Eric's mother, his sister, her husband Richard, and a stranger with a briefcase. A forged signature. A $1.25 million credit line against my house. Eric planning to freeze our accounts and file for divorce Monday, and if I fought, to tell the court I'd siphoned funds and fled to Europe.
I pressed record.
Then Richard asked: "What are we doing about the $480,000 already drained from her secondary accounts over the last two years?"
The silence was worse than any answer.
Because I hadn't known about that money.
And I'm the person who notices missing money for a living.
PART 2
I lay on that marble floor and I did the thing I do best. I stopped feeling and started auditing.
