"Do you?"
Roger met her eyes. "Yes."
She slid a legal pad toward him. "Then write down everything you can independently establish about that date."
Roger took the pen. Month, day, year. He recognized the week, not because of Kimberly, but because of work.
He had been involved in a major inspection sequence for a distribution center outside Cincinnati. Roger wrote the project name, hotel, mileage, people who might have seen him.
Then he stopped.
Amanda looked at the page. "Good."
Roger pointed toward the notarized document. "What happens with that?"
"We verify it."
Same answer. Different stakes.
Amanda would seek appropriate records concerning the notary execution process and lender documentation. Roger would do nothing.
No call to Kimberly. No call to the notary. No accusation.
He left the office at 11:20. On the drive toward Hilliard, his mind kept returning to the signature. Then, unexpectedly, it shifted to his father.
Walter Barry had never been wealthy in the way Kimberly understood wealth. He wore the same winter coat for 15 years. He drove pickup trucks until rust appeared around the wheel wells.
But Walter had owned land. He had saved. He had invested. He had kept records.
When Roger was 25, Walter told him something Roger had found boring.
"You don't need to look rich. You need to know what you own."
Roger had followed that advice almost accidentally. His retirement contributions increased whenever his salary did. He bought broad-market funds automatically every month.
He kept consumer debt low. When other people at work traded vehicles every three years, Roger kept the Explorer.
Kimberly hated that SUV.
Two years earlier, they had been leaving a restaurant in Easton when a valet pulled it around between a new Range Rover and a Mercedes.
Kimberly looked at the Ford. "You make enough money to stop driving that thing."
"It runs."
"That's your standard for a car?"
"Yes."
Roger had smiled. "Pretty much."
She hadn't.
At the time, it seemed trivial. Now Roger understood Kimberly had built a picture of him from things she could see.
Old Ford. Discount shirts. Home coffee. No expensive watch.
She had mistaken low display for low value. Roger had never corrected her. Why would he?
She was his wife. She had access to tax returns. She could have asked.
At work that afternoon, Roger reviewed mechanical room clearances and fire-stopping deficiencies. At 4:30, Mark Ellison appeared beside his desk.
"You have five minutes?"
Roger followed him into the conference room. Mark closed the door.
"This isn't about your personal situation."
Roger waited.
"We've been restructuring ownership."
Roger knew that. The consultancy had three senior partners, two approaching retirement. Mark continued.
"Your minority interest is going to be part of the discussion this quarter. You've been here 17 years. We need to talk about expanding it."
Roger leaned back. "Now?"
"Bad timing."
Roger almost laughed. "You could say that."
Mark nodded. "We can delay."
"No. Business is business."
Mark handed him a preliminary valuation packet. Roger looked at the number attached to his existing interest.
It was larger than Kimberly probably believed. Not because Roger had hidden it. The annual statements had been mailed to the house.
Kimberly simply never cared about them. To her, Roger worked inspections. He wore boots. He drove to construction sites.
He came home with dust on his pants. The idea that he held equity in the firm had never seemed important to her.
Roger placed the packet into his briefcase. That evening, he reviewed his finances for Amanda's disclosure requirements.
Everything would be disclosed.
Retirement.
Brokerage.