"You walked out."
Roger said nothing. Kimberly continued. "Jason is not some secret boyfriend I've been planning a life with."
Roger stared at the HELOC statement. "How long?"
"What?"
"You and Jason."
Kimberly hesitated. "We should talk about that in person."
"How long?"
"It isn't that simple."
Roger wrote the time of the call on his notepad: 3:18 p.m. "Then we'll discuss it later."
"Roger, don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Turn into some cold investigator."
Roger's eyes moved over the paperwork. "You had another man in our bedroom."
"I know what happened."
"Good."
"You're acting like I committed a crime."
Roger stopped. There it was. A sentence that would have meant nothing yesterday. Now it landed differently.
He looked at the HELOC records. "I didn't say you committed a crime."
Kimberly went quiet.
Roger waited. When she spoke again, her tone had changed. "I didn't mean it literally."
"Okay."
"Roger—"
"I have to go."
"Are you meeting with a lawyer?"
He did not answer. Kimberly exhaled. "I knew it."
The call ended 30 seconds later. Roger placed his phone beside the laptop. He replayed nothing. He interpreted nothing.
He returned to the documents. At 4:06 p.m., the bank sent a secure response. Supporting records were available for several advances. Roger downloaded the first PDF, then the second.
The third included an electronic authorization. Roger opened it. His name appeared on the form: Roger M. Barry. He checked the transaction date.
April 16.
Something about it bothered him. Roger opened his work calendar. April 16. He stared.
Indianapolis.
The memory came back immediately. A four-story mixed-use development near Massachusetts Avenue. Two-day inspection. He had driven west early on April 15 and returned late on April 17 after a follow-up meeting.
Roger searched his company email. Hotel confirmation. Indianapolis Marriott Downtown, check-in April 15, checkout April 17. He found the expense report, parking charge, meal receipt, mileage reimbursement.
Then he looked again at the authorization. Timestamp: April 16, 2:43 p.m.
Roger's skin went cold.
The document didn't merely list his name. It indicated electronic execution connected to the transaction. Roger did not know exactly what that proved. Maybe authorization had been established earlier.
Maybe remote signing was possible. Maybe there was an explanation buried in the lender's process. He refused to leap beyond the document. But one fact was solid.
At 2:43 p.m. on April 16, Roger Barry had been more than 170 miles from his house. He called Amanda. She answered after two rings.
"Collins."
"I found something."
"What?"
Roger explained the authorization. Then Indianapolis. Amanda became very quiet.
"Send me the document."
Roger emailed it. He heard keyboard clicks through the phone.
"Now send the hotel record and anything showing where you were."
Roger did. Another silence.
"Roger."
"Yes."
"Don't call Kimberly about this."
"I wasn't going to."
"Don't ask her about the signature. Don't send her a screenshot. Don't tell her what you found."
Roger looked at his own name on the document. "What do you think happened?"