let them believe they were the architects of my final chapter.
In reality, I was engineering their apocalypse.
Every afternoon, while Eleanor thought I was napping, I was in a secure boardroom downtown with Ms. Sterling. The forensic accounting was complete, and what we found was staggering.
“Your wife wasn’t just planning to steal the estate,” Ms. Sterling said, sliding a massive dossier across the glass table. “She’s been bleeding it for years. But that’s not the worst part.”
She opened a folder to reveal a complex web of bank transfers.
“Reverend Marcus Thorne,” Sterling continued, adjusting her glasses. “He runs the church’s charitable outreach fund. Over the last five years, nearly four million dollars of your corporate donations haven’t gone to the community. They’ve gone into a shell company in the Cayman Islands.”
“Marcus is stealing from his own church?” I asked, disgusted.