“Dominic and myself only.”
“Then we need understanding exactly where this money went,” Claire said.
“Forensic tracing will reveal everything.”
My mother reached for my hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
“I feel like this is somehow my fault.”
“None of this is your fault,” I told her firmly.
“Dominic created every single part of this.”
Claire’s forensic accountant, a careful man named Victor Reyes, met us the following morning.
His office was small.
Neat.
Filled with careful stacks of paper.
“I’ve handled cases like this before,” he told me.
“Understanding your husband’s pattern isn’t unusual.”
I felt a chill hearing that.
“How common is this,” I asked.
“More common than people think,” he said.
He opened his laptop.
“I’ll need access to every account Dominic has ever held.”
“Comprehensive tracing requires thorough investigation.”
I provided everything I could.
Bank statements.
Old emails.
Tax documents from years back.
“This will take some time,” Victor cautioned.
“These schemes often involve multiple accounts.”
“Sometimes shell companies.”
I felt genuine dread.
The scope of Dominic’s deception apparently exceeded anything I’d imagined.
I remember that first night at the hotel clearly.
My mother sat quietly on the edge of the bed.
Her cheek was swollen.
Purple beginning to bloom beneath her eye.
I brought her ice wrapped in a towel.
“Does it hurt,” I asked.
“Not as much as watching you leave everything behind,” she said.
I sat beside her.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
“I never wanted to be a burden,” she finally said.
“You were never a burden,” I told her.
“You’re my mother.”
She cried quietly then.
I held her.
Understanding grief sometimes arrives late, after the danger has already passed.
I thought about my father that night too.
He’d have never allowed anyone touching my mother.
Not once.
Not ever.
I wondered what he’d think watching everything unfold.
I decided he’d be proud.
Proud that I chose her.
Proud that I didn’t hesitate.
Even for a moment.
Dominic’s mother called me three days after I left.
I almost didn’t answer.
“Elena,” she said. “We need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I told her.
“He hit my mother. Twice.”
“He said she provoked him.”
I felt my grip tighten on the phone.
“Nobody provokes a slap,” I said.
“Understanding that’s simply not how this works.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Family handles things privately,” she finally said.
“This isn’t private anymore,” I told her.
“This is documented. Photographed. Reported.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
I never heard from her again.
Mateo texted me once, understanding he wanted checking on me.
“Are you okay,” he wrote. “I heard what happened.”
“I’m managing,” I wrote back.
“I’m sorry,” he added. “He’s always had a temper. I should have said something sooner.”
I appreciated that particular acknowledgment.
Though it arrived considerably too late changing anything meaningful.
Elias never reached out at all.
I wasn’t surprised.
Understanding some people simply choose comfortable silence over genuine accountability.
The following week brought considerable investigation.
Victor traced transfers through three separate accounts.
Each discovery revealed more troubling details.
“He’s been moving money into an account under a different name,” Victor told us.
“The account belongs to someone named Vanessa Kroft.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Who is she,” I asked.
Genuine dread already accompanied my question.
“I don’t know yet,” Victor admitted.
“We’re still tracing the connection.”
Claire looked at me carefully.
Genuine concern colored her expression.
“Elena,” she said, “this might be considerably more complicated than simple theft.”
I appreciated her caution.
Though anxiety accompanied everything continuing to unfold.
I hired a private investigator eventually.
I needed comprehensive information about Vanessa Kroft.
Her name was Patricia Owusu.
Her expertise proved invaluable throughout that sensitive investigation.
“Vanessa Kroft works at Meridian Consulting,” Patricia told me.
Within just three days.
“That’s the same building where Dominic’s office is located.”
I felt genuine devastation.
Suspicion had proven accurate.
“Are they involved romantically,” I asked directly.
Patricia nodded carefully.
Genuine compassion accompanied her difficult confirmation.
“I have photographs,” she said.
“They’ve been meeting regularly for at least a year.”
I sat quietly.
Processing that revelation.
Devastation combined with something resembling twisted relief.
“A year,” I repeated.
“That explains considerably more than simply the missing money.”
My mother squeezed my hand gently.
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