Victoria arrived at my house forty-five minutes after I called her, accompanied by a digital-forensics specialist named Aaron Cole.
I had followed her instructions exactly.
The old computer remained unplugged on the dining room table. The USB drive was still inserted. I had touched neither since our phone conversation.
Aaron carried two hard cases, wore thin-framed glasses, and spoke with the maddening calm of someone accustomed to people bringing him catastrophes wrapped in electronics.
“Tell me precisely what you did,” he said.
I described opening the package, disconnecting the old laptop from the internet before inserting the drive, opening several documents, and then stopping after Victoria warned me.
“Did you copy anything?”
“No.”
“Print anything?”
“No.”
“Forward anything?”
“No.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
Victoria stood beside the window with her arms folded. “Can you preserve it?”
Aaron looked at the laptop.
“I can preserve what’s here. The bigger question is whether we can establish where it came from and whether the files themselves were altered.”
My stomach tightened.
“You think they're fake?”
“I think we don't assume they're genuine because they say things we want to believe.”
That sounded exactly like something Victoria would say.
She gave him the faintest approving look.
Aaron photographed the computer, the USB drive, the envelope, and the packaging. He then placed the drive into a protective evidence sleeve and began making a forensic image using equipment he had brought with him.
I watched from the opposite side of the room.
Those files had felt like salvation when I first read them.
Now they looked like bait.
“Could Daniel have sent them?” I asked.
Victoria glanced at me. “For what purpose?”
“To make me react.”
“Possible.”
“To make me move money.”
“Also possible.”
Aaron kept his attention on the equipment. “Or somebody else wants Daniel exposed.”
“Olivia?”
“Maybe.”
“Richard?”
“Maybe.”
The repetition irritated me.
Everyone suddenly existed inside a field of possibilities.
I wanted one solid thing.
Aaron finally looked up.
“There’s metadata on several documents.”
“Meaning?”
“Creation dates. Editing dates. Software identifiers. Sometimes usernames, company names, device information.”
My pulse quickened.
“And?”
“And I need to examine everything before I tell you what it means.”
Victoria turned toward me.
“Until then, you behave exactly as you have been.”
“As Daniel's clueless wife.”
“As someone who does not yet understand the full scope of what has happened.”
The distinction mattered.
I nodded.
That evening Daniel called earlier than usual.
I was standing in the kitchen cutting an apple when his name appeared on my screen.
“Hey.”
“Hey, beautiful.”
The knife paused against the cutting board.
He had not called me beautiful in months.
“What happened?” I asked lightly. “Did Canada improve your mood?”
He laughed.
“Maybe I just miss my wife.”
I placed the knife down.
“That's sweet.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I haven't heard that voice lately.”
“What voice?”
“The one that remembers we're married.”
Silence.
Not long enough to be an admission.
Long enough to be interesting.
“I've been under pressure,” he said.
“So have I.”
“I know.”
He did not know.
That was the strangest part of every conversation now.
Daniel imagined my loneliness as an empty house and a cold bed.
He had no idea it included lawyers, investigators, corporate registrations, traceable inheritance funds and a forensic copy of the evidence he thought I would never find.
“Did you send the apartment photos?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“You promised.”
“I know. It's still a mess.”
“What part of Toronto are you in again?”
He hesitated.
“Near downtown.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That narrows it down.”
“Emma.”
“What?”
“You sound strange tonight.”
“I'm teasing you.”
“No, you're doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you ask questions like there's a right answer.”
I looked at the dark window over the sink.
Marriage had taught him something about me too.
“I miss you,” I said.
His suspicion softened immediately.
“I miss you too.”
The ease with which affection could still disarm him made me feel ill.
He began talking about his supposed office.
I listened carefully.
There was a client presentation tomorrow. A regional director named Marcus had apparently flown in from Vancouver. Daniel complained about an expense policy and a temporary workspace with terrible coffee.
These details were more specific than his earlier stories.
I wrote them down after we hung up.
The next morning, the investigator verified something useful.
There was no Marcus matching Daniel's description connected to the Canadian division of Daniel's employer.
More importantly, Daniel was not formally assigned to Toronto at all.
His employer believed he was on extended personal leave.
I read that sentence three times.
“Personal leave?”
Victoria nodded.
We were in her office again.
“He told them he needed time for family reasons.”
“What family reasons?”
“That wasn't disclosed to us.”
I laughed once.
It had no humor in it.
“So his company thinks he's dealing with family problems while I think he's working for them in Canada.”
“Yes.”
“That's almost elegant.”
Victoria closed the file.
“Deception often is, until too many versions collide.”
I looked at the investigator.
“Does his employer know about the consulting company?”
“They know Daniel has outside interests. They don't appear to know the full structure.”
“Would that violate anything?”
“Possibly. But that's their issue unless it connects to yours.”
Everything connected to mine.
At least it felt that way.
Aaron called shortly after noon.
“Can you come in?”
Victoria and I drove to his office together.
He had converted the USB contents into a report containing timestamps, file histories and source information. Most of it meant nothing to me.
Then he showed us one line.
A document author field.
RHALE.
I looked at Victoria.
“Richard.”
Aaron raised one finger.
“Maybe.”
I exhaled sharply.
“Again?”
“Usernames aren't proof of identity. But several files originated on a system registered to Hale Strategic Holdings.”
Richard's company.
That was stronger.
“How did they get onto the drive?”
“Copied in batches over three separate dates.”
“When?”
Aaron gave me the dates.
The most recent transfer had occurred two days before the package reached my house.
Somebody had been actively assembling the evidence.
“These weren't random files sitting together for years,” he said. “Someone selected them.”
“Richard could have.”
“Yes.”
“Daniel?”
“If he had access to Richard's systems.”
“Olivia?”
“If she did.”
Victoria leaned over the report.
“What about the email exports?”
Aaron pointed to another section.
“Those are interesting.”
The messages between Daniel and Richard appeared authentic in formatting and header structure, but some had been exported through an administrative mailbox.
“What does that mean?”
“Whoever obtained them may have had higher-level access than an ordinary employee.”
My thoughts went immediately to Olivia.
“She worked inside the company.”
“Do we know her role?”
“Operations,” the investigator said. “Mostly administrative. Vendor coordination, invoices, scheduling.”
Aaron looked at him.
“Administrative access could fit.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Then she sent it.”
Victoria stopped me with a glance.
“It suggests she could have.”
I stood and paced toward the wall.
“If Olivia sent the photographs and the drive, she's trying to tell me something.”
“Or protect herself,” Victoria said.
“What's the difference?”
“Intent.”
I turned.
“If she knows Daniel is stealing from me and gives me evidence, why should I care whether she's protecting herself?”
“Because someone protecting herself may omit anything that makes her look culpable.”
That quieted me.
Aaron pulled up another file.
“There is one more thing.”
The document was a spreadsheet.
Columns of transfers.
Dates.
Entities.
Balances.
And initials.
D.
R.
O.
My eyes fixed on the third letter.
“Olivia.”
“Possibly.”
The amounts linked to O were smaller than those connected to Daniel or Richard, but they existed.
Payments.
Reimbursements.
Transfers.
One line showed $18,000 directed to an account associated with Olivia approximately three months earlier.
Another showed $11,500.
Another $7,200.
“Salary?” I asked.
“Some could be compensation.”
“And some?”
“Unknown.”
The simple narrative I'd begun constructing—Daniel and Richard as architects, Olivia as frightened insider—fractured.
“What was she being paid for?”
“We don't know.”
Victoria's tone remained measured.
“Which means you don't contact her.”
I nodded reluctantly.
Aaron scrolled farther.
Near the bottom of the spreadsheet was a scheduled transaction.
It had not yet occurred.
Amount: $410,000.
Destination: an offshore financial institution.
Execution window: approximately three weeks away.
My mouth went dry.
“What is that?”
Nobody answered immediately.
I leaned closer.
The source account identified on the spreadsheet was ours.
The joint account.
The one still displaying approximately $720,000.
I straightened slowly.
“They're planning to move four hundred ten thousand dollars.”
Victoria's expression hardened.
“If the spreadsheet reflects a genuine intended transaction.”
“When?”
“Within roughly three weeks.”
I thought of Daniel telling me to stay busy.
Not to wait around.
To adjust to life without him.
He wasn't buying two years.
He might only need weeks.
“Can we stop it?”
Victoria nodded.
“We can take steps.”
“Without warning him?”
“That becomes more complicated.”
“What happens if the transfer fails?”
“He may realize something changed.”
I stared at the schedule again.
Three weeks.
Suddenly every day mattered.
That afternoon, Victoria began preparing an emergency application seeking restrictions on extraordinary transfers while preserving ordinary access to marital funds.
She explained every sentence before I signed anything.
“This may accelerate the conflict,” she warned.
“If we wait, he takes four hundred ten thousand.”
“If the plan is genuine.”
“It is.”
“You believe it is.”
I looked at her.
“Would you wait?”
She did not answer directly.
She didn't need to.
We filed.
For the next forty-eight hours, I continued speaking to Daniel as if nothing had changed.
He complained about Canada.
I sympathized.
He said he had found a gym.
I told him that was good.
He promised apartment photographs again.
I pretended to believe him.
Then, on Friday morning, Victoria called.
“The temporary financial order was granted.”
I sat down on the edge of my bed.
“What does that mean?”
“Neither of you can make extraordinary withdrawals or transfers from the specified accounts without notice and appropriate authorization while this is reviewed.”
Relief hit so hard that my knees weakened.
“So the four hundred ten thousand is safe.”
“For now.”
“For now is enough.”
“Emma.”
Something in her voice stopped me.
“What?”
“The order will eventually have to be served.”
“How long?”
“Soon.”
Meaning Daniel's ignorance was almost over.
I looked around the bedroom.
His clothes still hung in the closet.
His watch box still sat on the dresser.
The fiction of his temporary absence remained physically intact.
“What should I do?”
“Prepare for him to react.”
“How?”
“We don't know.”
That evening Daniel did not call.
At first I assumed he was with Olivia.
Then nine o'clock passed.
Ten.
Eleven.
I went to bed without hearing from him.
At 1:14 in the morning, my phone rang.
Daniel.
I answered immediately.
“What's wrong?”
His breathing was uneven.
“Emma.”
I sat up.
“What happened?”
“Did you do something with our accounts?”
The question arrived without greeting, without affection, without Canada.
My pulse hammered.
“What do you mean?”
“Something's wrong.”
“With what?”
“The bank.”
I heard movement behind him.
A door closing.
Then his voice dropped.
“There's a restriction.”
I made myself breathe slowly.
“I don't understand.”
“Did anyone contact you?”
“No.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Emma, think.”
His tone sharpened.
“I am thinking.”
“Did you talk to Richard?”
The name nearly made me stop breathing.
Daniel had never once told me Richard was involved in any current financial matter.
I kept my voice puzzled.
“Why would I talk to Uncle Richard?”
Nothing.
That silence told me more than any answer could have.
Daniel realized his mistake.
“I mean because he helped with the estate years ago.”
“At one in the morning?”
“Forget it.”
“Daniel, you're scaring me.”
He exhaled hard.
“It's probably nothing.”
“What restriction?”
“I'll handle it.”
“From Canada?”
Another pause.
Then Daniel said something I had been waiting weeks to hear.
“I may need to come home.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“I'll know tomorrow.”
He ended the call five minutes later after pretending to reassure me.
I remained sitting in darkness.
The legal order had done more than protect the account.
It had touched the mechanism beneath Daniel's plan.
And he had felt it immediately.
At 1:42 a.m., another message appeared.
Not from Daniel.
Not from the anonymous email address.
From Olivia.
Her name displayed plainly on the screen.
Emma, you don't know me, but we need to talk before Daniel gets back to New York.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Olivia Finally Contacted Me Directly, but What She Confessed About Daniel’s Baby and My Uncle Made Trust Almost Impossible
At the Airport, My Husband Promised He Would Come Home, but One Small Detail Made His Goodbye Feel Wrong
Part 5 of 20
