Leah called me the following Monday.
She had reviewed the account list I sent her.
“Where did these transfers originate?”
“Our joint checking account.”
“Do you know who owns the receiving account?”
“No.”
“Then we won't call it hidden money yet.”
That irritated me at first.
Scott had already announced that he owned everything.
I wanted something certain to answer his certainty.
But Leah did not practice law by guessing.
“We'll request financial records,” she said. “If the account belongs to him or the business, we can ask why it wasn't disclosed.”
We prepared a list of documents to seek through the formal process.
Bank statements.
Business ledgers.
Tax returns.
Credit card records.
Loan agreements.
Property documents.
And any records relating to financial transfers between Scott and businesses he controlled.
Leah also asked me about the difference between an accountant and a bookkeeper.
“I mostly entered invoices and reconciled statements,” I said.
“Did you ever approve loans?”
“No.”
“Did you sign tax returns?”
“I signed joint personal returns after reading them.”
She wrote that down.
The information mattered because the marriage and the company were connected, but they were not the same legal entity.
I could not simply walk into Scott's office and carry away corporate records.
Nor could he erase the possible marital value of a business by calling it his.
Our attorneys would have to establish what existed.
That afternoon I picked Ellie up from orchestra practice.
She carried her violin case against her chest.
“Dad wants me to visit the apartment this weekend,” she said.
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe.”
“Then we'll talk about the details.”
She stared through the windshield.
“He says you're going to sell the house because you can't afford it.”
I took the longer road home so I could answer without feeling rushed.
“I don't know yet what keeping the house would cost after a fair settlement,” I said. “I'm working on that.”
“Could we move?”
“It's possible. But no one is moving tomorrow.”
She gripped the handle of the violin case.
“I hate not knowing.”
“So do I.”
She glanced at me.
At least that answer did not ask her to pretend.
The next day, Scott's attorney emailed Leah.
Scott wanted the house listed immediately.
He wanted exclusive use of the proceeds after paying off the mortgage.
He offered a few months of temporary support in exchange for my signature.
The proposed terms didn't include an accounting of the business.
They didn't specify a workable parenting schedule.
Leah declined to recommend it.
“Isn't a quick settlement better for the children?” Scott later asked me by telephone.
“A fair one is better,” I said.
He laughed sharply.
“You've been talking to Mara too much.”
“Please send property proposals through the attorneys.”
“And now you think you're important.”
I ended the call.
My phone lit up three more times.
I did not answer until he sent a question about Ben's orthodontist appointment.
I answered that promptly.
I was learning that a boundary could be very ordinary.
It could be answering the message about your child and declining the insult attached to it.
At the end of the week, I took the blue box to Indianapolis.
Leah's assistant scanned the pages I had organized.
We labeled each document with the date and the source I could identify.
There were no dramatic speeches.
A scanner hummed.
A paper jam stopped us twice.
June brought a fresh tray of paper clips.
At lunchtime Leah joined us.
She spread the transaction summary across a table.
“There's another number worth checking,” she said.
It was a payment to a company called Ridgeway Administrative Services.
I recognized the name from Scott's old expense reports.
He had described Ridgeway as an outside office-support contractor.
But the mailing address in the records was the same street as his brother Aaron's small commercial building.
I said nothing for a moment.
Leah noticed.
“What is it?”
“Aaron rents offices on that street.”
“Do you know whether he's involved?”
“No.”
“Then we verify it.”
She circled the address in pencil.
I drove home thinking of Scott's certainty.
He had called me incapable of managing money.
He had forgotten that I knew how to reconcile a bank statement.
And he had forgotten something else.
The people who do the quiet work often remember where the records are kept.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: At the First Court Hearing Scott Smiled Until Leah Asked About a Bank Account He Had Not Disclosed
The Night Scott Put Divorce Papers Beside Our Dinner and Mistook My Signature for Surrender
Part 4 of 16
