Chapter 2

I went straight to my office.

It was six in the morning. The building was empty. I sat at my desk, opened the file my investigator had sent, and read.

My hands started shaking.

Not from fear. From rage.

Daniel's restaurant company—Hartford Hospitality—was a shell. He'd been siphoning money for years. Over two million dollars. And most of it had gone to LRC Hospitality. Lorraine's company.

A company that did nothing. No employees. No office. No revenue. Just a bank account where Lorraine collected Daniel's stolen money.

They'd been working together. The whole time.

And it got worse.

The forensic accountant found forged signatures. Falsified tax returns. Money hidden in offshore accounts. Daniel had even taken out a second mortgage on our house—without my signature. Without my knowledge.

He'd been planning to leave me with nothing.

I called my law partner, Janet. She arrived at seven. I showed her everything.

"Rachel," she said, after a long silence. "This is bad. For him. Not you. We can destroy him."

"Then let's destroy him."

We filed for divorce that morning. Temporary restraining order. Freeze on all joint accounts. Emergency hearing to get me back into the house—alone.

The judge granted everything.

By noon, the sheriff was at our house. Daniel and Lorraine were served. They had to leave. Immediately.

I watched from the car as they walked out. Lorraine was screaming. Daniel was on the phone, yelling at his lawyer.

They didn't see me.

I went inside. The house was a mess. Lorraine's things everywhere. My jewelry—what was left of it—was gone from my jewelry box. But I'd already documented it. Photos. Insurance claims. Everything.

I packed my things. Changed the locks. Had the security system updated.

And I called the police. Reported the assault. The morning he threw me out of bed. The security footage backed me up.

They issued a warrant for Daniel's arrest. Domestic assault.

He was arrested that evening.

Lorraine bailed him out. Using money from LRC Hospitality. Stolen money.

The irony was beautiful.

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That night, I slept in my own bed. Alone. The doors locked. The security system on.

And for the first time in eight months, I slept through the night.