Patricia reopened the apartment payment.
“The lease is not in Greg’s name.”
“Sandra?”
She nodded.
For months, I had paid Sandra’s rent.
We traced furniture, insurance, utilities, grocery deliveries, and vehicle expenses.
A second household emerged from the records.
Not a careless affair.
A carefully financed private life.
“I thought the relationship was the betrayal,” I said.
Patricia folded her hands.
“It was the cover.”
At seven that evening, a security alert arrived from my cloud-storage account.
Someone in Tulum had attempted to sign in.
The attempt failed because I had changed the password.
“They’re looking for something,” Patricia said.
“Tax records. Investment files.”
“Or proof of what they already changed.”
Then I remembered my digital signature.
Years earlier, Greg had asked me to scan it for business paperwork while he traveled. He said it would save time when contractors needed quick approval.
I stored the scan on an external drive in my office.
We connected the drive.
Folders appeared.
TAXES.
INSURANCE.
ESTATE.
PHOTOS.
BUSINESS.
“I don’t remember creating that last one.”
Inside were loan applications, vendor contracts, credit documents, and supplier agreements.
Many displayed my signature.
I had never seen most of them.
Patricia read in silence for several minutes.
When she finally spoke, her voice had changed.
“Diana, your husband may have used your signature on financial documents without your knowledge.”
Rain began tapping against the kitchen windows.
I closed my eyes only long enough to breathe.
Then I opened them.
Patricia was already separating the evidence into new folders.
Unauthorized transfers.
Misrepresented approvals.
Signature misuse.
Hidden expenses.
Possible business liabilities.
“From now on,” she said, “you do not answer Greg’s calls.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You do not answer Sandra.”
“I won’t.”
“If either appears here, you remain inside and request assistance.”
“What if they apologize?”
The question surprised both of us.
Then I smiled.
“They can apologize through their attorneys.”
Patricia smiled for the first time that day.
“Good.”
Before leaving, she stopped at the front door.
“People who believe they have successfully hidden everything almost always make one final mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“They come back.”
Her prediction took less than forty-eight hours to become true.
Saturday afternoon was warm for early spring. I was trimming the hydrangeas along the driveway when a taxi turned into the cul-de-sac.
Greg stepped out first.
The confidence from the Tulum photograph was gone. His polo shirt was wrinkled. His beard had grown unevenly, and his face looked tired.
Sandra climbed out behind him carrying two large suitcases and a designer handbag purchased with my card.
Even from thirty feet away, I could see the tension between them.
They did not speak.
Paradise had apparently ended when the money stopped working.
I placed the garden shears on the porch and went inside.
Three hard knocks sounded against the new front door.
“Diana.”
I waited.
Another knock.
“I know you’re home.”
I opened the door with the safety latch secured.
Greg forced a smile.
“There you are.”
“What do you need?”
“My cards don’t work.”
“I know.”
“We’ve been trying to call you.”
“I know.”
“You changed the locks.”