The balances were unchanged.
No money had been transferred out by me.
The only difference was that Greg’s and Sandra’s cards no longer worked.
Officer Daniels nodded.
“You removed access. You did not empty the accounts.”
“Correct.”
Officer Ruiz pointed toward the transaction history.
“May we look at the recent charges?”
“Yes.”
I opened the card activity.
The Tulum charges appeared immediately.
Hotel.
Restaurants.
Private transportation.
Boutique purchases.
Spa appointments.
A boat excursion.
Officer Ruiz frowned.
“These all came from your account?”
“Yes.”
“When did they begin?”
I scrolled backward.
Monday afternoon.
Monday evening.
Early Tuesday.
Several had been made before Greg sent the message, as though he assumed the money would remain available indefinitely.
Officer Daniels leaned closer to the screen.
Then I saw something I had not noticed the night before.
A bank transfer for eleven thousand dollars.
The destination account was unfamiliar.
I clicked the entry.
Another transfer appeared beneath it from three weeks earlier.
Eight thousand five hundred.
Then another.
Three thousand two hundred.
My breathing remained steady, but a cold pressure formed beneath my ribs.
“I didn’t authorize these.”
Officer Ruiz stood and moved closer.
“Are you certain?”
“I review every major transfer.”
I filtered the account history.
Dozens of electronic transfers appeared.
Some were small enough to disappear among routine expenses. Others were large. The transaction notes referenced consulting, materials, reimbursements, and vendor deposits.
I opened a calculator.
The total climbed.
Twelve thousand.
Twenty-four.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-eight.
Forty-three thousand dollars over ten months.
Officer Daniels closed his notebook.
“Mrs. Mercer, did your husband have access to your banking credentials?”
“He knew an older password. He should not have been able to approve transfers after I updated the account last year.”
“Could he access your computer?”
“Yes.”
Officer Ruiz looked at the rows of unfamiliar payments.
“I think this is more serious than a disagreement over canceled cards.”
The irony settled over the room.
Greg had sent officers to my door hoping they would restore his access to my money.
Instead, his complaint had brought witnesses to the first discovery of what he had been hiding.
I opened another transfer.
The recipient name meant nothing to me.
Officer Daniels spoke carefully.
“You should contact your bank’s security department and an attorney. Preserve everything exactly as it is.”
“I will.”
“We’ll document what we reviewed here. As far as the locks and cards are concerned, we do not see a problem based on the ownership records you’ve shown us.”
Officer Ruiz added, “If Mr. Mercer returns and refuses to leave the property, call us.”
After they departed, I locked the new door.
Not because I was afraid.
Because habits mattered.
By noon, my dining table had disappeared beneath account statements, tax documents, transfer confirmations, and credit-card summaries.
The more I searched, the worse it became.
This was not a spontaneous trip.
It had been planned, funded, and hidden.
Greg had not simply left me for Sandra. He had constructed another life using my money, then announced his departure from a resort I had unknowingly financed.
I found a payment to a luxury apartment building in downtown Charlotte.
Another to a furniture store.
Vehicle insurance.
Utility deposits.
Grocery deliveries.
A storage unit.
The transactions were divided across categories and dates, making them look like ordinary business reimbursements.