I spent the next forty-five minutes stitching an artery in a man who had been stabbed outside a bar. My hands never shook. My colleagues said I looked calm, and that almost made me laugh. Inside, something colder than rage had taken over. Grief would come later. Humiliation too. But in that moment, I was pure method.
After my shift, I met Rebecca with a folder full of screenshots, statements, and three years of tax returns pulled from our shared cloud drive. She outlined what I could document immediately: marital funds, probable infidelity, deceptive financial behavior, and misuse of shared assets. Then she asked the question that made my chest tighten.
“Do you know who the woman is?”
I didn’t. Not yet.
But by evening, I did.
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