"So it's worth thirteen thousand dollars to get away from me?"
"Please don't turn it into that."
"What else am I supposed to hear?"
I pressed the elevator button.
"Hear that I don't want money to become the last conversation we have."
She looked at me for a long time.
"You make everything sound reasonable now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means sometimes I wish you would just hate me."
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside but held the door.
"I do hate some things you did."
Her eyes filled.
"That isn't the same as hating you."
I let the doors close.
Two months after Miami, Harbor House completed the first phase of its internal review.
The board issued a public statement because the organization received government grants and donor funds, and because rumors had already begun circulating online. The statement confirmed financial irregularities connected to a vendor program, announced that the matter had been referred to law enforcement and the organization's insurers, and said Claire was no longer employed by Harbor House.
It did not name Adrian initially.
His company was identified a week later through public court filings when Harbor House sought to freeze disputed funds still held in a Palisade business account.
The story reached local news.
That was the week I stopped answering unknown numbers.
A reporter left a message asking whether Claire's "marital troubles" were connected to the alleged financial misconduct.
Another asked if I had discovered the fraud because of an affair.
I gave both messages to Rachel.
My only statement, through counsel, was one sentence.
"I am not involved in Harbor House operations and will respect the organization's investigative process."
Nothing else.
That silence cost me less than I expected.
Online strangers invented the rest anyway.
Some made Claire a cartoon villain. Others turned her into a victim of a manipulative trainer. A few decided I had orchestrated the entire investigation because I was humiliated by the Miami trip.
People who knew none of us argued confidently about our marriage beneath news articles.
I stopped reading.
Claire did not have that discipline.
She read everything.
Her mother, Judith, called me one evening in tears.
"She hasn't eaten today."
I stood in my apartment kitchen holding a plate I had been about to wash.
"Is she alone?"
"I'm with her."
"Then she's not alone."
"Nathan, she keeps asking for you."
I closed my eyes.
Judith had always been kind to me. She was not responsible for her daughter's choices, and I did not want to punish her by sounding cold.
"I can't be the person who helps her through losing me," I said quietly.
Judith began crying harder.
"I know."
"She needs a therapist. Her lawyer. You. Friends who aren't connected to this. But if I go over there every time she falls apart, we're both going to confuse comfort with reconciliation."