“No,” she replied. “You need the right lawyer.”
At eight the next morning, I sat across from Rebecca Stone, a family attorney with silver hair, red glasses, and the calm voice of a surgeon.
She watched the video once. Then she watched it again.
When it ended, she folded her hands.
“Mrs. Caldwell, your husband made several mistakes.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Only several?”
Rebecca did not smile. “First, Ohio is an equitable distribution state. That house being in his name does not automatically mean it is only his, especially if marital funds paid for it during the marriage. Second, he physically assaulted you in front of your children. Third, he threatened you in writing. Fourth, he appears to have introduced his affair partner into the marital home before resolving custody or property issues.”
I blinked. “So I’m not powerless?”
“No,” Rebecca said. “You are documented.”
Within forty-eight hours, Rebecca filed for temporary custody, exclusive use of the marital residence, child support, spousal support, and a protective order. Brent was served at his office in front of his assistant, two partners, and Vanessa.
That same evening, he left me a voicemail.
“You think you’re smart?” he hissed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
But he was wrong.
For ten years, Brent thought my quietness was weakness. He forgot I had worked as a forensic accountant before Mia and Ethan were born. He forgot I knew how numbers told stories people tried to hide.
And Brent’s numbers had just started speaking.
The first account I found was not hidden well.
