THE INVITATION

There is one rule I have trusted throughout my career as a forensic financial analyst:

Nothing truly disappears if you know where to look.

Money leaves a trail.

So does betrayal.

For five years, I had convinced myself that my marriage was simply going through a difficult season.

Clint and I had once been happy.

At least, I thought we were.

We had met when I was twenty-seven, when my life was still simple and his ambition was just beginning to take shape.

He had been charming back then.

He told me he admired how intelligent I was. He said he loved that I didn’t care about expensive clothes or luxury parties.

“You’re different from everyone else,” he used to tell me.

I believed him.

Then his career took off.

And the more successful Clint became, the more embarrassed he seemed by the woman who had supported him before anyone knew his name.

My job was the first thing he began criticizing.

Then my clothes.

Then the way I spoke.

Then the people I spent time with.

Eventually, even my existence seemed to irritate him.

That Thursday evening, I was standing in the kitchen preparing dinner when Clint walked through the front door.

He didn’t kiss me.

He didn’t ask how my day had been.

Instead, he tossed a sleek black envelope onto the kitchen island.

“Next Thursday,” he said, removing his watch, “we’re having dinner at The Obsidian Room.”

I looked at the invitation.