‘I don’t care who Clara is,’ Susan said. She stood up, sliding her chair back. The screech of the wood against the floor was the loudest sound in the room. ‘The forensic accountant Deborah hired spent the last three days going through our Fifth Third Bank records. You embezzled over one hundred thousand dollars from our joint company.’

She reached into her purse and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was a certified divorce petition, already signed by her. ‘You are going to sign the business over to me tonight, David. Or the police will be waiting at our house when you get back.’

I looked at Deborah. She was leaning back in her chair, taking a slow sip of her wine. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The trap had closed, and the teeth were deep in my neck.

I signed the papers right there on the steakhouse table, my pen scratching against the polished wood. I had no choice. My business, my home, my reputation in Troy, Ohio, was gone in thirty seconds. Susan took the ledger, stood up, and walked out of the room. Her family followed her. Deborah was the last to leave. She paused at the door, looked back at me sitting alone at the empty table, and gave a small, polite nod. Then she closed the door.

That was three months ago. The business belongs entirely to Susan now. I am working as a line technician for a competitor, driving an old rusty van again. I live in a cheap motel near Dayton. I still don’t really know how to feel about any of it. I thought I was the one pulling the strings, but I was just the mark. I winced and looked at my hands, still smelling of motor grease. I guess some debts take twenty-five years to collect.