“He’s hiding assets,” I said. My voice sounded foreign, hollow. “I found transfer documents. Marcus is moving our house into an LLC I’ve never heard of.”
The line went dead quiet. All traces of sleep vanished from Maya’s voice.
“Send me the photos,” she commanded. “Right now. Do not confront him. Do not let him know you know. Act like everything is normal. Can you come to my office at noon?”
“I’ll be there.”
I spent the next three hours performing the role of the oblivious wife. When Marcus returned from his run, flushed and handsome, I poured him coffee. I asked about his route. I kissed his cheek, tasting the salt of his sweat, and forced a smile when he said he had a “late client dinner” that night.
At noon, I walked into Maya’s corner office overlooking the harbor. The gray December waves were chopping angrily against the piers, matching the turmoil in my gut.
Maya had the photos I’d sent spread across her mahogany desk, along with several other documents she had pulled from databases I didn’t even know existed. She didn’t offer me tea. She didn’t offer me a hug. She looked at me with the grim focus of a general surveying a battlefield.
“Elena,” she said softly. “When was the last time you checked your credit report?”
“I don’t know. A year ago? Why?”
She turned her laptop screen toward me.
“Because according to the records in Clark County, Nevada, your husband filed for divorce two months ago.”
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the desk.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “I’m right here. We live together. I never signed anything. I never even knew.”
“He forged your signature.”
Maya’s voice was gentle, but the words hit like stones.
“I pulled the filing,” she continued. “The signature on the waiver of service doesn’t match your handwriting. It’s too loopsy, too hesitant. I already sent the digital file to a forensic document examiner I work with. She can have a preliminary analysis by tomorrow morning.”
