But inside my head, everything stopped.
“Three point eight million,” I repeated.
“That is only what I could verify overnight,” Grace said. “There may be more.”
I placed one hand on the counter to steady myself. “Where did it go?”
“That’s the part we need to document carefully. Some money moved through shell vendors. Some appears to have paid personal expenses. Jewelry. Travel. Private school donations connected to Margaret’s friends. A renovation on the Southampton house.”
I closed my eyes.
The canceled Cartier card suddenly felt like a match struck in a dark room.
Not the fire.
Just the first glimpse of what had already been burning.
“And Brandon knew?” I asked.
“Olivia,” Grace said gently, “Brandon set up the payment authorizations.”
I opened my eyes.
Across the entry hall, Brandon looked up at that exact moment. His expression changed when he saw my face. The anger was gone now. So was the performance. What remained was watchfulness.
He was trying to read how much I knew.
I turned away from him.
Grace continued, “There’s more. Several transfers were disguised as strategic consulting fees from companies connected to Sterling Point portfolio deals.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “Are you saying he used my firm?”
“I’m saying someone used your name and access to make fraudulent payments appear legitimate. That may be why he wanted the laptop. If he could reach your email, your saved credentials, or the archived board folders, he might have altered the timeline.”
I thought about Brandon’s panic when the police arrived. The way he kept repeating that I was confused, fragile, emotional. He had not come to apologize. He had not even come because of Margaret’s necklace.
He had come to make me unreliable before the evidence became clear.
For five years, he had called me too sensitive whenever I noticed missing money. He had smiled through dinner while telling me I was brilliant at work but terrible with “domestic details.” He had suggested I was tired, distracted, overreacting.
I had mistaken manipulation for marital exhaustion.
“Do not touch anything in your home office,” Grace said. “Do not let him near it. I’m sending a forensic accountant and a digital evidence specialist. They are discreet, certified, and already on their way.”
I looked through the glass wall toward my desk.
A framed wedding photograph still sat on the lowest shelf, half-hidden behind a stack of annual reports. Brandon and I stood on a vineyard lawn in late September sunlight. He had kissed my temple as if I were the most precious person in the world.
I remembered how safe I had felt.
That memory hurt more than the broken door.