to the guest room, locked the door, and opened my laptop.
For years, Daniel had handled most monthly credit-card payments while I managed our household calendar.
That morning, I downloaded everything I could legally access—joint statements, insurance records, mortgage information, and credit-card history.
At first, the charges looked ordinary.
Then I found a $486 boutique hotel charge from a Thursday night in October.
I checked my calendar.
My stomach dropped.
That exact night, I had been at a work conference in Boston.
Daniel had texted that he’d had a long
