What if I had been wrong?
A year earlier, I had believed Laura was destroying our marriage.
The evidence had seemed overwhelming.
It began with money.
I owned Whitmore Development, a commercial real estate company my father had founded twenty-seven years earlier.
Laura had access to several household accounts and one investment reserve we occasionally used for charitable projects.
One morning, my accountant called.
Six transfers had been made over three months.
$18,000.
$22,000.
$31,000.
$14,500.
Then two larger withdrawals.
Nearly $140,000 in total.
Every transaction appeared to have been authorized using Laura’s credentials.
When I confronted her, she stared at the statements as if she had never seen them.
“I didn’t do this.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I was angry enough to mistake disbelief for confidence.
“Your password. Your authorization.”
“Grant, I swear to you—”
Then came the photographs.
