I stayed on Briella's couch for three nights. The cushions were lumpy. I didn't sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw James's shoulder pulling away from mine.

Briella left for work before dawn each morning. She came back after dark with takeout containers and her laptop already open. She didn't ask if I was okay. She asked what I remembered about Corey's work schedule. What time he left the house. What time he came back. Whether he ever mentioned offshore accounts or shell companies or anything that sounded like it didn't belong in a mid-level analyst's vocabulary.

I told her what I could. It wasn't much.

On the fourth morning, I woke up to find her standing in front of a whiteboard she'd propped against the bookshelf. She had a dry-erase marker in one hand and a cold mug of coffee in the other. The board was covered in boxes and arrows and names I didn't recognize.

"Come here," she said.

I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and stood beside her.

She tapped the marker against a cluster of boxes on the left side. "These are entities registered in the Cayman Islands. No employees. No office addresses. Just corporate structures that exist on paper."

She drew a line connecting them to another box. "This one cycles payments through a consulting firm in Delaware. The consulting firm has one client. Harlow's investment company."

Another line. Another box. "And this is where Corey's name shows up. He's signing off on wire transfers that move money from Harlow's firm into these shells, then back out again as 'consulting fees' that get deposited into accounts he has access to."

I stared at the board. The lines blurred together.

"Sylvia." Briella set the mug down. "Corey is laundering money through Harlow's company. This isn't just an affair. This is a criminal enterprise."

I sat down on the arm of the couch. My legs felt hollow.

"How much?" I asked.

"I'm still tracing it. But we're talking hundreds of thousands. Maybe more."

I thought about the Range Rover. The renovations. The private school upgrades. The navy blazer James wore in the gala photo.

"She's paying him," I said.

"She's using him," Briella corrected. "And he's letting her because he likes what it buys."

She capped the marker and turned to face me fully. "You need to understand what this means. If you go after him for custody, for the house, for anything—he's going to fight dirty because he has to. He can't afford a paper trail. He can't afford discovery. He can't afford you."

"Good," I said.

Briella's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Good."

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I picked it up.

Corey's name on the screen.

I let it ring twice before I answered.

"Sylvia." His voice was clipped. Businesslike. "You're coming back this weekend."

I didn't say anything.

"Harlow is hosting a client dinner at the house Saturday night. You'll cater it."

"No."

"Yes." He said it like he was correcting a child. "You're still my wife. You still live in that house. You have obligations."

"I don't live there anymore."

"Legally, you do. And legally, you don't have an income. You don't have a lease anywhere else. You don't have a claim to anything until divorce papers are filed." He paused. "So you'll come back. You'll cook. You'll serve. You'll smile. And then you can leave again if that's what you want."

I looked at Briella. She was watching me, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

"What time?" I asked.

"Six o'clock. Don't be late."

He hung up.

I set the phone down slowly.

"You're not actually going," Briella said.

"I am."

"Sylvia—"

"James is there." I stood up. The blanket slipped off my shoulders. "If I go back, I can see him. I can check on him. I can make sure he's okay."

"And Corey knows that. That's why he's asking."

"I don't care why he's asking." My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "James is in that house. So I'm going back."

Briella studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "But you're not going empty-handed."

She turned back to the whiteboard, pulled out her phone, and started taking pictures of every box, every line, every name.

"You're going to smile," she said. "You're going to serve their dinner. You're going to be exactly what they think you are."

She looked at me over her shoulder.

"And while you're there, you're going to pay attention. Because we're building a case. And when it's ready, we're going to bury them."

I picked the blanket up off the floor and folded it. My hands were steady.

"Okay," I said.

Briella smiled. It was small and sharp and nothing like kindness.

"Okay."

The brownstone looked the same. Same brick. Same iron railing. Same potted boxwoods flanking the door that I'd watered every Sunday for six years.

I stood on the sidewalk with my keys in my hand. My thumb found the house key automatically. Muscle memory.

I let myself in.

The kitchen smelled like lemon polish. Someone had cleaned. Not me. I set my bag on the counter and opened the refrigerator. Harlow had left a list on a Post-it stuck to a bottle of champagne. Appetizers. Entrée. Dessert. Plating instructions. A note at the bottom in her sharp handwriting: "Our guests have taste."

I pulled out the ingredients and lined them up. Prosciutto. Figs. Goat cheese. Shrimp.

I stopped.

I opened the drawer beside the stove. The laminated allergy card was still there, tucked under the spatulas where I'd kept it for three years. James's name at the top. Shellfish in red letters. Severity: ANAPHYLAXIS.

I picked up the shrimp and put them back in the refrigerator.

I was halfway through plating the figs when Harlow came in. She wore white. Silk blouse, tailored pants, heels that made small precise clicks against the tile. She looked at the counter, then at me.

"The garnish is wrong," she said. "Our guests have taste."

She picked up one of the plates, studied it, set it back down.

"Fix it," she said, and walked out.

I fixed it.

I was arranging the corrected plates on a tray when James appeared in the doorway. He was wearing the navy blazer from the gala photo. His hair was combed. He looked smaller than I remembered.

"Hi, baby," I said.

He didn't move. His fingers twisted the edge of his blazer.

"James!" Harlow's voice came from the dining room, bright and musical. "Come help me with the flowers, sweetheart!"

He looked at me one more time. Then he turned and walked away.

I picked up the tray and carried it into the dining room.

The table was set with the good china. Candles. Flowers in a crystal vase. Harlow stood at the head of the table, adjusting a stem. James was beside her, holding a pair of scissors.

"There you are," Harlow said without looking at me. "Set those down and check the wine."

I set the tray down. I checked the wine.

Guests began arriving at six-thirty. I moved through the rooms with trays and bottles, refilling glasses, clearing plates. No one looked at me. I was furniture.

I was in the kitchen rinsing champagne flutes when my phone rang.

The nanny's name on the screen.

I dried my hands and answered.

"Sylvia—" Her voice cracked. High and thin. Wrong. "James can't breathe—his face is swelling—he's on the floor—I don't know what happened—"

I dropped the towel.

I ran.

The living room was on the second floor. I took the stairs three at a time. My shoulder hit the doorframe. I didn't feel it.

James was on the rug. On his side. The nanny was kneeling beside him, both hands pressed to her mouth. His lips were blue. His throat was swollen. His chest moved in shallow, rapid jerks.

I dropped to my knees and pulled him into my lap.

"Baby. Baby, look at me."

His eyes were open but unfocused. A thin sound came from his throat. Not a word. Just air trying to move through a space that was closing.

I looked at the coffee table. A plate of canapés. Shrimp wrapped in bacon.

My phone was in my hand. I pulled up the keypad. Pressed 9.

A shadow fell across the rug.

Corey stood in the doorway. He looked at James. He looked at me. He looked at the phone in my hand.

He stepped forward and his hand closed around my wrist.

"Don't."

I stared at him.

"It's probably not serious," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice he used in meetings. "Calling an ambulance will terrify the clients. Harlow will handle it."

I looked down at James. His lips were darker now. Almost purple.

I looked back at Corey.

Then I wrenched my arm free with a force that pulled him forward half a step, shoved past him, and ran for the kitchen.

The EpiPen was in the drawer beside the stove. I grabbed it. I ran back upstairs.

James's eyes were starting to roll back.

I pulled the cap off the pen, pressed it against his thigh, and pushed the plunger.

The click was loud in the quiet room.

I counted to three. Pulled it away. Dropped it on the rug.

James gasped. A wet, choking sound. But a sound.

I pulled him against my chest and stood up.

Corey was still in the doorway. His mouth was open. He didn't move.

I walked past him. Down the stairs. Through the foyer. Out the front door.

The street was bright and cold. I stood on the curb with James in my arms and raised my free hand.

An Uber pulled over.

I climbed in.

"NYU Langone," I said. "Emergency entrance."

The driver looked at James in the rearview mirror. His face went pale.

"Hold on," he said, and hit the gas.