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That word had become theft.
I went upstairs to his study.
For fifteen years, I had respected Grant’s privacy. Not because I was naive, but because privacy had once felt like a form of love. I had never checked his phone, searched his pockets, or read his emails.
But respect belonged inside a marriage.
This was no longer a marriage.
This was an investigation.
His study smelled of leather, cedar, and the expensive cologne he wore when he wanted to impress people. The desk was spotless, of course. Grant believed visible clutter was a weakness. His diplomas hung behind the desk in a perfect row: Duke, Johns Hopkins, Vanderbilt. Framed articles praised his surgical innovations. One magazine cover called him “The New Face of Modern Cardiac Care.”
I almost laughed.
On the shelf beside his awards sat a silver-framed photograph from our tenth anniversary. Grant was kissing my cheek while I smiled at the camera. We looked elegant. Stable. Admired.
We looked believable.
I opened the drawer where he kept spare chargers, cufflinks, and old conference badges.
Nothing.
The second drawer was locked.
That was new.
Grant had always trusted me not to look.
Now he trusted a lock more.
I went downstairs, found a small toolkit, and returned with a flathead screwdriver. It took less than three minutes. Event planners solve disasters with whatever is available—floral wire, tape, pins, borrowed screws, and false confidence.
A locked drawer was hardly a challenge.
The lock gave with a soft metallic click.
Inside were three things.
A slim black folder.
A bank envelope.
A velvet jewelry box.
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