“And then I did what I used to do for a living, before I married you and let you convince me I was decorative. I built a case. A federal one. I spent six months documenting your financial crimes with a forensic accountant, and the night before you snuck out of here, I delivered the entire thing to an Assistant U.S. Attorney who used to work for me. The frozen accounts, the flagged passport — that’s not the end of what’s coming. That’s the first hour of it.”
He had gone very pale.
“You’re a prosecutor,” he whispered. Eleven years married, and he was only now, truly, meeting his wife. “You were a— oh my God. You were a federal prosecutor.”
“I was a very good one,” I said. “You married the one woman in this country least equipped to miss what you were doing, and then you spent a decade teaching yourself that she was useless. I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy the irony of that for the rest of my life.”
