Kimberly.
He watched it ring. It stopped. A message appeared.
"Please answer me."
Thirty seconds later, another.
"We need to talk before you start making assumptions."
Roger read that one twice. Assumptions. He looked at the spreadsheet. He still had no idea whether any of the money had anything to do with Jason.
That mattered. He would not combine two facts simply because they had appeared on the same night. Jason had been in his house. The credit line had been used.
Those were facts. Everything connecting them was still unknown. Another message appeared.
"Jason and I made a terrible mistake."
Roger's jaw tightened. He set the phone face down. Another vibration.
"It hasn't been what you think."
Roger did not answer. At 12:41 a.m., he copied the files to his portable hard drive. Then he emailed several statements to a private email account Kimberly did not use.
He did not delete anything from the shared accounts. He did not move money. He did not change access. He simply preserved what already existed.
At 1:12 a.m., Roger finally closed the laptop. Sleep came in pieces. He woke at 3:26. Again at 4:51.
At 6:15, he stopped trying. He showered, dressed in the same navy chinos he had packed the night before, and went downstairs for coffee. His phone showed 23 messages.
Roger read them in order. The tone changed gradually.
"Please come home."
"I can explain."
"It was stupid."
"Jason doesn't mean what you think he means."
"You haven't exactly been present in this marriage either."
Then, "You can't just leave."
Then, "Ignoring me is cruel."
The final message had arrived at 5:38 a.m.
"If you cared about 11 years of marriage, you'd talk to me before involving anyone else."
Roger took a slow drink of coffee. Yesterday, that sentence might have worked. This morning, it didn't.
At 7:45, he searched for family law attorneys in central Ohio. He did not choose the first advertisement. Roger read biographies, practice areas, and professional histories. One name appeared repeatedly.
Amanda Collins, 47, partner at Collins, Harper and Lane in downtown Columbus. Twenty years handling divorce, complex property division, and business valuations. Roger called when the office opened. By 10:30, he was sitting across from her on the ninth floor of an office building overlooking South High Street.
Amanda had a yellow legal pad in front of her. Roger told the story once. He started with Pittsburgh. He gave times.
He described coming home at 9:17. He described Kimberly's words. He described Jason. Then he described the accounts.
Amanda interrupted only to clarify dates. When Roger finished, she looked at the documents he had printed at the hotel business center.
"You did all of this last night?"
"I downloaded statements."
"You move any money?"
"No."
"Close accounts?"
"No."
"Change the locks?"
"No."
"Threaten either of them?"
"No."
"Post anything online?"
"No."
Amanda nodded. "Good."
Roger waited. She folded her hands over the legal pad. "From this point forward, don't improvise."
Roger said nothing.
"Don't empty joint accounts because you're angry. Don't destroy property. Don't throw Kimberly's belongings outside. Don't contact Jason's employer."
"Don't threaten him. Don't start recording conversations without understanding the legal implications. And don't assume infidelity automatically decides property issues."
"I don't."
"Good, because it doesn't."
Roger slid the printed HELOC statements toward her. "This is what concerns me now."
Amanda examined the first page, then the second. "How much?"