“We have him. It’s over, Gwen. It’s really over.”
I did not feel triumph.
I felt the specific, bottomless grief of a woman who has just heard, in his own voice, definitive proof that the man she’d loved for fourteen years, the man she’d built a life with, had planned to end her for money.
Toby held me while I fell apart.
My nineteen-year-old son, who had saved my life from four hundred miles away with a synced account and a 2 a.m. phone call, held his mother while she grieved a marriage that had, it turned out, been a transaction wearing the mask of love for longer than either of us knew.
The trial, months later, was almost anticlimactic.
The evidence was overwhelming — the searches, the forged loans, the policies, the timeline, and above all the recorded confession from the night he came for me and found the law waiting instead.
