calculators.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“That phrase from you usually ends badly.”
“I think my wife and her boyfriend are planning something involving my house.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I explained the call.
Rebecca stopped joking.
“Send me everything.”
“There’s more.”
I told her Derek owned a gym.
She asked for the company name.
I gave it to her.
Then she said something strange.
“Don’t sign anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“No. Cole. Anything. Not a waiver. Not a gym release. Nothing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That sentence stuck with me.
By Thursday morning, Rebecca called again.
“Your wife transferred seventy-two thousand dollars out of the joint savings account eight months ago.”
I sat up in the motel bed.
“What?”
“Three transfers. Twenty-four thousand each.”
I opened my banking app.
I almost never checked that account.
My commissions went into another account used for
