I drove to her office.
She had a printed copy of a bank disclosure.
The $24,000 Lauren transferred had not remained in a savings account.
$15,000 had moved again.
The money went to a limited liability company.
TURNER STRATEGIC VENTURES LLC.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Blake.”
“Presumably.”
“What is it?”
“We’re checking.”
I leaned forward.
“She gave him our money.”
“Slow down.”
“It was joint savings.”
“I understand.”
“She transferred fifteen thousand dollars to him.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“That appears to be the case.”
My hands had gone cold.
“What happens now?”
“Now this is no longer merely about infidelity.”
Rebecca tapped the paper.
“Movement of marital assets becomes relevant.”
“Can we get it back?”
“Possibly.”
“Can we stop the rest?”
“We can seek temporary financial restraints.”
She studied me.
“Caleb, this is the part where people become reckless.”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“Good.”
“I want her out of the house.”
“Wanting that and legally accomplishing it are different things.”
I nodded.
“Can I pack her belongings?”
“You can organize property carefully, but I would strongly advise against destroying anything, preventing access, or representing that she has legally lost rights she may still possess.”
“Okay.”
“She may also agree to reside elsewhere while this is pending.”
“Blake’s?”
Rebecca did not smile.
“That is not my concern.”
Friday night, I began packing.
Not angrily.
That surprised me.
I expected rage when I touched her things.
Instead, I moved slowly.
Clothes first.
I folded most of them.
Shoes into original boxes where I could find them.
Books.
Cosmetics.
Hair tools.
The ceramic jewelry tray from her side of the dresser.
Framed photographs.
I did not throw out our wedding pictures.
I placed them together in one box marked PHOTOS.
I found tickets from Portugal tucked inside a drawer.
A handwritten note she had left in my suitcase before our second anniversary.
Still choosing you.
I sat on the edge of the bed holding it.
For the first time all week, I cried.
Not loudly.
No dramatic collapse.
Just tears that seemed to arrive without asking permission.
I cried because I remembered believing her.
I cried because she might have meant it when she wrote it.
I cried because people could mean something once and still betray it later.
That was harder than deciding she had never loved me.
If she had never loved me, everything became simple.
She had.
I knew she had.
Somewhere along the way, love stopped being enough to govern her choices.
That was the tragedy.
Not that everything had been fake.
That something real had been treated as disposable.
I folded the note.
Put it with the photographs.
Then kept packing.
By Saturday afternoon, there were nineteen boxes.
I labeled them.
CLOTHES.
SHOES.
BOOKS.
OFFICE.
BATHROOM.
PHOTOS.
PERSONAL.
I did not place them outside yet.
They remained in the front sitting room.
Saturday evening, Rebecca sent me the draft of an emergency application concerning preservation of marital assets.
Turner Strategic Ventures, we had learned, had been formed four months earlier.
Its registered address belonged to a virtual office in Manhattan.
Blake had described himself online as founder and managing partner.
The company appeared to have no employees.