“Well, speaking of babies, the little guy is kicking up a storm today.” She lifted her sweater slightly, showing off the curve of her belly. “Do you want to feel?”
It was a power move. A cruel, twisted power move to remind me of what she had and I didn’t. She thought it would make me cry. She thought I would crumble.
I stared at her exposed skin. That was my husband’s child. Half of his DNA was knitting together inside her.
“No thanks,” I said flatly. “I’m not really a baby person anymore. I think I’m over it.”
Monica looked stunned. I was supposed to be the weeping, desperate, infertile woman. My indifference threw her off script.
“Oh. Okay.” She pulled her sweater down. “Well, I just wanted to remind you about the baby shower next month. I know it’s a lot to ask, but since you offered to host—”
“I’m still hosting,” I interrupted. “In fact, I want to make it bigger. Let’s invite everyone. Richard’s colleagues, my family, all our mutual friends. Let’s make it a massive celebration.”
Monica’s eyes lit up. Greed. She loved being the center of attention, especially on my dime.
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I want to give you a party that no one will ever forget.”
She beamed, oblivious to the threat hidden in my promise.
“You’re the best friend ever, Laura. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You’d be broke and alone, I thought.
“I have to run,” I said, standing up abruptly. “I have a meeting with my financial advisor to discuss the donation.”
Monica stood up so fast she nearly knocked the chair over.
“Right. Yes. Don’t do anything rash though, okay? Talk to Richard first.”
“I always talk to Richard,” I said, walking her to the door.
As she walked to her beat-up Honda Civic—which I knew Richard was planning to replace with a Range Rover using my money—I pulled out my phone. I dialed the number for the best forensic accountant in the state.
“This is Laura Reynolds,” I said when the receptionist answered. “I need to book an urgent consultation. I suspect high-level marital fraud and asset dissipation, and I need a team who can work quietly.”
The game was on. Monica wanted a party. I was going to give her a spectacle.
The forensic accountant, a man named Mr. Henderson with glasses thick enough to see into the future, had given me a checklist. Get the hard drive. Get the tax returns. Check the credit reports.
Two days after Monica’s visit, Richard went on an overnight “business trip” to Portland. I knew he wasn’t in Portland. The Find My iPhone feature he thought he had disabled on our shared Family Cloud account showed his iPad—which he took with him—pinging at a luxury resort two hours north. And guess whose phone was pinging at the same location?
Monica’s.
I didn’t cry this time. I felt a cold, clinical precision taking over. I waited until I was sure they were settled in. Then I went into Richard’s home office. He kept it locked, but I had the master key to every door in this house. I paid for the locks, after all.
The room smelled of stale coffee and secrets. I sat at his massive mahogany desk, another gift from me, and booted up his desktop computer. Password-protected, of course.
I tried his birthday. Incorrect.
I tried our anniversary. Incorrect.
I tried “Monica.” Incorrect.
I paused, thinking. Richard was arrogant, but he was also sentimental about his triumphs. I typed in the due date of Monica’s baby.
Access granted.
