When Andrew Roark came home after a twelve-hour electrical job, he found a thin little boy sitting beneath the maple tree in his yard. The boy lifted his head, and Andrew dropped his tool belt into the grass. It was Harry — his son, the child everyone said had drowned five years ago. But when Andrew held him, Harry whispered, “Dad, it wasn’t an accident.”

“Are you mad?”

“Not at you,” Andrew said. “Never at you.”

That night, after Harry fell asleep on the couch, Andrew sat at the kitchen table and opened the laptop.

Mary had always handled the paperwork.

Insurance.

Banking.

Household bills.

Andrew had trusted her because marriage was supposed to have trust inside it.

Now he searched through old accounts until he found the policy.

Harry’s life insurance.

Fifty thousand dollars.

Filed three weeks after the funeral.

Approved six weeks later.

Mary’s signature was on the claim.

Betty’s signature was on a witness form.

The money went into Andrew and Mary’s joint account.

Then it began moving out.

Five thousand dollars.

Three thousand.

Twenty-five hundred.

Again and again.

Most of it went to Betty.

Some of it paid Mary’s credit cards.

Some disappeared into accounts Andrew did not recognize.

Andrew was still staring at the screen when the front door opened.

Mary walked in.

Her heels stopped clicking when she saw the laptop.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at the insurance claim.”