Grant Mercer kicked his wife hard enough to make the room go silent.

That was the first decision Evelyn made for herself.

The second came eleven minutes later.

She sat alone in the back of a hired town car, city lights sliding across the window, when her phone vibrated.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

She nearly ignored it.

Then a message appeared.

Mrs. Mercer, my name is Daniel Cross. I'm the outside auditor assigned to Mercer Alder's year-end review. I apologize for contacting you personally. I was told not to. There is something you need to see before Monday.

Evelyn stared at the screen.

Another message followed.

Mr. Mercer submitted documents this afternoon representing that he controls 61% of voting authority and has approval to transfer a large portion of company assets into a new entity.

Her ribs suddenly felt cold.

Grant could not transfer 61 percent.

Grant did not own 61 percent.

He owned twelve.

Evelyn typed with both thumbs.

Send me the documents.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then returned.

I would rather meet. There are signatures on them that appear to be yours.

The town car turned onto North Astor Street.

Evelyn looked through the glass at the house where she and Grant had lived for four years.

The limestone facade glowed beneath warm exterior lights. The front windows shone gold. The place looked peaceful enough to sell happiness to strangers.

Her grandmother's trust had bought it.

Her holding company owned it.

Grant called it his house.

The phone vibrated again.

Daniel Cross had sent a photograph.

It showed the signature page of a corporate authorization.

Evelyn enlarged it.

Her own name stared back at her.

Evelyn Rose Mercer.

The signature was excellent.

Almost perfect.

It was also forged.

Below it appeared the name of the entity that would receive the transferred assets Monday morning.

North Vale Strategic Holdings.

Evelyn had never heard of it.

But the registered manager printed underneath made her stop breathing.

Lila Warren.

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

Evelyn looked once more at the forged signature.

Then at the bright windows of the home Grant believed he could return to after celebrating with his mistress.

Her hand stopped shaking.

“Change of destination,” she said.

“Where to?”

Evelyn opened her contacts and selected a number she had not called after ten at night since her grandmother died.

“My attorney’s office.”

The driver nodded.

Evelyn pressed CALL.

A gravelly voice answered on the third ring.

“Evelyn?”

“Arthur.”

A pause.

“You sound hurt.”

“My husband kicked me tonight.”

The silence on the line changed.

Arthur Hale had served as her grandmother’s attorney for twenty-seven years. He had known Evelyn when she wore braces. He had drafted her prenuptial agreement. He had repeatedly advised her never to confuse generosity with shared ownership.

He did not waste time expressing surprise.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been examined?”

“Not yet.”

“Do that first.”

“I need something else first.”

“Tell me.”

Evelyn looked again at the document.

“I think Grant forged my signature to transfer company assets to his mistress.”

Arthur breathed out slowly.

“That is a very different conversation.”