SHE BROUGHT HIS MISTRESS INTO THEIR BED

Sofia leaned over my shoulder.

“How much?”

I showed her the three transfers. Together, they were enough to cover several months of our household bills.

“That account holds your pay too,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What was he paying her for?”

“I don't know.”

My thumb hovered over Mateo's number. I put the phone down.

It was nearly midnight. He had answered my questions all afternoon by choosing the version that helped him most. I wanted facts before I heard another explanation.

I changed the password to my personal banking account and checked that my business account was separate. Then I sent screenshots of the transfers to myself and made a list of bills due that week.

Sofia watched me.

“You've been home less than six hours.”

“If I stop, I'll start thinking about the bed.”

She didn't tell me to stop. She sat beside me while I worked.

The next morning, I called the bank. An employee explained which transactions had been authorized through our joint account and what I could do to protect my own money while we sorted things out. She couldn't tell me why Mateo had sent the payments.

I opened a new account for my wages. I contacted my firm's bookkeeper, who confirmed Mateo had no access to the company's accounts. Then I called a family lawyer Sofia trusted.

Her name was Priya Shah. She couldn't meet until Monday, but she told me what records to gather and urged me not to rely on promises about where money would go.

By noon, Mateo had called nine times.

I finally answered.

“Why did you transfer money to Chloe?”

He went silent.

“Elena, I can explain.”

“I'm listening.”

“She loaned the restaurant money. I was paying her back.”

“Three payments from our household account?”

“I couldn't make the supplier payment and the loan at the same time.”

“You told me yesterday the bank letter was about a supplier.”

“It was. I owe both.”

I closed my eyes.

“How much does the restaurant owe her?”

“About forty thousand.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Did she know the money came from our joint account?”

“I didn't discuss our accounts with her.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“She knows I was paying her back.”

He sounded tired. I was tired too. My exhaustion didn't change what he'd done.

“Don't take another dollar from that account,” I said.

“I need to keep the restaurant open.”

“And I need to pay our mortgage.”

He made a frustrated sound.

“You don't understand what happens if I close.”

“Then show me the numbers. All of them.”

“I will.”

He said it so quickly I knew he hadn't expected me to ask.

I hung up and found Sofia standing in the doorway. She had heard enough.

“Forty thousand?” she asked.

“About that.”

She pulled out a chair.

“Mom would have told you to eat something before you made another call.”

Mom had spent years saying that difficult news didn't excuse forgetting lunch. I opened the refrigerator because I couldn't bear to hear another good memory while I was hungry and frightened.

We ate sandwiches. Then I returned to the records.

Mateo had opened the restaurant five years earlier. I had helped with the first lease and a limited amount of startup money. We had agreed my consulting firm would remain mine and that he'd tell me if the business needed more help.

For a while, he had.

Then the updates grew vague. He said sales were improving. When bills arrived, he said slow months happened to every restaurant. I had wanted to support him without becoming the person who checked his every receipt.

Now I didn't know what he had borrowed or promised.

Sofia drove me to the house to collect the remaining mail. Mateo was out. I didn't search his personal things. I took documents addressed to me or to both of us and photographed the household account statements I could find in the study.

The bedroom door was open. Chloe's dresses were gone. The sheets had been changed.

I stood in the doorway, feeling sick.

Sofia touched my arm.

“We can leave.”

I went to the dresser and took Mom's photograph. I'd brought it to Sofia's the night before, then realized the one on the dresser was another picture: Mom and me on my wedding day. Vanessa—no, Chloe—had placed that one faceup.

I held it by its wooden frame.

Mateo came home while we were leaving. He stopped when he saw the folders under my arm.

“What are you taking?”

“Mail with my name on it.”

“Are you building a case against me?”

“I asked you for the restaurant's numbers. Have you gathered them?”

“I've been working.”

“So have I.”

His eyes went to the wedding photograph.

“I didn't move that one,” he said.

“Chloe did.”

“I told her to leave your things alone.”