I fished a USB drive out of the shoe cabinet drawer and tossed it onto the coffee table.

He looked at it and went still.

"The combination on the safe in your study is our wedding anniversary."

I said, "Some habits of yours, you haven't changed in ten years."

His lips were trembling.

So were his hands.

He reached for the drive. I pinned it down.

"You touch it, and I call the financial crimes unit right now."

I held his eyes. "Bet on whether I'd dare."

His fingers curled back.

The lawyer cleared his throat beside us. "Mrs. Lambert, I haven't seen what's on this drive."

"You don't need to."

I turned to him. "Sign now, and I only want sixty percent of your shares. Don't sign, and I'll make sure you can't even hold on to the other forty."

He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again the rims were red, and his voice came out soft, almost pleading. "That money, it really was for the company. Once the project goes through, all of it comes back."

"Whether the project goes through has nothing to do with me."

I pushed the pen across to him. "All I know is, the money you've brought home these past six months is less than what I made running food deliveries."

He laughed again, an ugly laugh this time. "You? Running deliveries? You quit your day job?"

"You didn't know?"

"I—"

"There's a lot you don't know."

I cut him off. "You don't know my ears ring so bad I can't sleep till the middle of the night. You don't know my hands shake too much to hold a soup bowl. The only thing you know is what your Jo Malone smells like."

He lowered his head.

His shoulders caved in, like someone had pulled the bones out of him.

"Sign it," I said.

He picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the paper and stayed there a long time.

The lawyer coughed.

He looked up suddenly. "Can I—can I make a call to her?"

"Who?"

"That Mr. Chavez's—I need to know she's safe."

I looked at him and said nothing for a while.

Then I took the pen out of his hand and signed his name for him.

"I'll save you the phone bill."

I slid the agreement over to the lawyer. "Your Ms. Chavez left town an hour ago. Her father just got called in by the regulatory investigators."

The last bit of color drained from his face.

The lawyer gathered up his folder and headed for the door. Passing him, he paused. "Mr. Lambert, I'd advise you to find a lawyer of your own, quickly."

The door closed.

He stood in the middle of the living room like a clay statue.

After a long while he spoke. "When did you find out?"

"The first time you slipped into the study at midnight to take a call."

"Then why did you still—"

"Still scrape money together for you?"

I gave a small laugh. "I wanted to see how long you could keep up the act."

He crouched down and clutched his head with both hands.

His shoulders jerked up and down.

I went back to the bedroom to pack.

I'd zipped the suitcase halfway when I heard him cry out somewhere outside, muffled, like he had his face buried in the couch cushions.

I pulled the door open.

He raised his head, his face streaked with tears. "What's actually on that drive?"

"Last month's fake reports from your company."

"Where did you get them?"

"Your assistant gave them to me."

He froze.

I wheeled the suitcase past him. "You think you're the only smart person in the world?"

At the door I stopped for a step.

"Was it fun, playing me for a fool?"

I didn't look back.

When the door shut behind me, I heard something shatter inside.

Maybe a glass. Maybe something else.

I'd dragged the suitcase to the elevator when Rodney Lambert came running out barefoot.

"Your assistant, when did she—"

He grabbed the elevator door, his knuckles white. "How long has she been working with you?"

The elevator arrived. I stepped in. "She's smarter than you."

He jammed a hand against the door to keep it open. "What did you offer her? I'm the one paying her salary."

"You pay her salary. I provide it."

His hand slackened.

The doors started to close. He shot his arm out again. "Wait."

"Let go."

"At least tell me where you're going."

"None of your business."

The doors closed.

He shouted something through the gap. I didn't catch it.

A neighbor heading down to take out the trash crossed paths with me, eyes dropping to my suitcase.

I gave a small smile. "Business trip."

He nodded and didn't ask more.

The wind poured down my collar the moment I cleared the entrance, and only then did I remember my coat was still inside.

I couldn't be bothered to go back for it. I called a car on my phone.

While I waited, his call came through. I cut it off.

It came again. I blocked him.

Then my phone died.

The heat in the car was on full. The driver glanced at me twice in the rearview mirror. "Where to, miss?"

"Just drive for now."

He laughed. "Running away from home?"

"Getting divorced."

He cleared his throat and turned the mirror back.

I gave him Megan's address.

When I got there she opened the door, hair a mess, half asleep. "At this hour? What are you doing here?"

"It's done."

That woke her up.

She poured me a glass of water. "What did he say?"

"Not much. He signed."

She stared at me for three full seconds. "Could you cry, just a little? You're scaring me like this."

I didn't cry.

I finished the water and splashed my face. She followed and leaned against the bathroom doorframe. "You got the shares?"

"Sixty percent."

"He agreed?"

"His assistant handed me the reports."

She whistled. "That girl's got nerve. Won't he go after her when he finds out?"

"She's already gone."

"Gone where?"

"Don't know. I told her to leave."

She didn't ask again.

The next morning she made porridge. I'd had two spoonfuls when my hand started shaking again.

I set the bowl on the table. She watched and said nothing.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Fine, my ass."

She took the porridge away. "You're going to the hospital."

"No."

"Then you're not staying here."

I looked at her.

She glared right back. "Your hand's shaking like you've got Parkinson's. I mean it."

I went in the afternoon anyway.

The doctor asked a string of questions, then wrote out an order for tests.

While I was in line, I borrowed her phone to log in to my messages. They blew up.

In the company group he'd tagged me a dozen times, asking if anyone had seen me.

No one answered.

I scrolled down. There was one private message, from his assistant. He didn't come to you, did he?

I replied: No.

She wrote back in a second: He called me seventeen times yesterday.

I thought it over. Block him.

She sent back a smiley face.

The tests ran almost until dark. The doctor looked at the results and said I wasn't resting well and wasn't eating enough, and prescribed some vitamins.

I'd just stepped out of the exam room when the phone rang. Megan's number. I picked up, and it was his voice.

"Where are you?"

I hung up.

He called again. I just turned her phone off.

Back downstairs at her place, I saw his black car parked at the curb.

She pulled me toward the side door. He got out and came after us.

"So this is how it is? You're just going to hide from me?"

I turned around. "Are you following me?"

"I've been looking for you all day."

His eyes were ringed dark, like he hadn't slept all night. "I won't go after the assistant. Come back and let's talk this through."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The money—" He stepped closer. "I'll give you every cent, you keep the shares too, just come back. Can you do that?"

Megan planted herself between us. "Mr. Lambert, back off."

He looked at her, then at me. "You're staying with her? You're sleeping at her place?"

"None of your business."

"You're my wife."

"Not for much longer."

His chest rose and fell a few times. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the black card, holding it out. "Take it."

I didn't.

He shoved it into the pocket of my coat. "The PIN hasn't changed."

I took it back out and threw it on the ground.

He stared at the card lying there and stood still for a long time.

The wind made a worse mess of his hair.

He crouched, picked it up, didn't hold it out again, just closed his hand around it.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked suddenly.

I said nothing.

"You just came out of the hospital…"

He edged half a step closer. "Are you sick?"

Megan pulled at my arm. "Let's go."

He was still shouting behind us. "Tell me what's wrong with you!"

I didn't look back.

It was only once we were inside the stairwell that I heard him smash something.

As Megan unlocked the door upstairs, she said quietly, "The way he looked at your hand just now—"

"Don't."

Inside, while I was changing out of my shoes, a slip of paper fell from my pocket.

It was the medical report. I had no idea when he'd slipped it in.

One line was circled in pen: nervous tremor, rest advised.

I didn't read it twice. I tore it up and threw it in the trash.

That night, after she was asleep, I sat in the living room scrolling on my phone and saw he'd posted something. Just two words: It's over.

Someone had commented underneath: What's over?

He didn't reply.

I swiped past it, opened the chat with the assistant, typed a few words, then deleted them.

In the end I sent: He'll probably go in to the company tomorrow.

The assistant replied: Got it.

I locked the screen.

Headlights swept past outside, stopped below the building, then drove off.

I sat in the dark for a long time. My hand was still shaking, but less than during the day.

The next morning Rodney got to the county clerk's office before me.

He was leaning against the railing by the steps, smoking, seven or eight butts at his feet.

When I walked over he looked up and stubbed out the cigarette.

"You've lost weight."

"The papers."

He took them out of his pocket but didn't hand them over. "Last time I'm asking."

I reached out and took them, flipped through. In the photo the two of us sat side by side, both faces stiff.

I put it in my bag and turned to go.

He followed a couple of steps. "At least take a card. You've got no money on you—"

"I do."

"You quit that job. How much can you make running deliveries?"

"Enough to live on."

He stopped.

I'd gone a dozen steps when I heard him call out, "I'm moving out this afternoon. The house is yours."

From then on, I was free…

Out past that street, I flagged a cab. The driver asked where to.

I gave him the address of the law firm.

On the way my phone buzzed. A message from Megan: Got it done?

I replied: Yeah.

She fired back instantly: Drinks tonight.

By the time I reached the firm, the lawyer had the rest of the documents ready. I signed, stamped them, and he slid a check across to me.

"He had someone bring this over this morning. Said it's for you."

I looked at the number and didn't move.

The lawyer nudged the check toward me again. "Just take it. He won't rest easy until you do."

"What do I care whether he rests easy."

"Take it and he won't have an excuse to keep contacting you."

I thought about it, folded it, and tucked it into my pocket.

Outside I stood on the sidewalk for a while. The sky was overcast, about to rain, a damp smell in the air.

My phone rang. Unknown number.

I picked up. It was the assistant's voice, kept very low. "It's me. He blew up at the office. Smashed the place."