Chapter 3 - Receipts and Sunburns
While Marcus and Chloe hauled the final boxes of my books out to the truck, I sat down at our solid granite kitchen island with a cup of black coffee and my laptop.
Sarah Vance had given me specific instructions regarding our finances.
Under Ohio law, marital funds spent on extramarital relationships or non-marital waste can be directly clawed back during asset division. For the last four days, Sarah’s forensic accountant had been reviewing our bank statements, and the discoveries had been nauseating.
Dylan hadn't just bought a plane ticket on Tuesday.
He had booked the flights three weeks ago. First-class seats on American Airlines, departing Columbus with a connection in Charlotte, landing in Key West. He had paid for both tickets out of our joint emergency account.
He had also booked a three-night stay at an ultra-luxury boutique resort near Mallory Square for ""the middle of the trip,"" despite telling me they were staying entirely at Courtney’s aunt’s fictitious guest cottage. The confirmation email had been forwarded to his secondary business email address, which was still synced to our home desktop computer.
I took high-resolution screenshots of every single charge:
- Two round-trip first-class airline tickets: $2,410.
- Deposit for The Marquesa Hotel: $1,850.
- Tiffany & Co. pending transaction from the Polaris Mall: $890.
- Victoria’s Secret online order shipped to our home address while I was at work: $340.
The jewelry charge hit me harder than the plane tickets. He hadn't bought me jewelry since our fifth anniversary, when he handed me a silver-plated charm bracelet he had grabbed from a department store display rack on his way home from work.
I printed two physical copies of every single invoice, bank statement, and reservation confirmation. I placed one set in the manila folder meant for the court filing.
The second set I laid out squarely across the middle of the empty dining room table, creating a neat, chronological mosaic of his deception.
At 1:15 p.m., my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Dylan.
Landed in Key West! Weather is unreal, totally clear skies and 85 degrees. Courtney’s aunt met us with rum punches. Going out on the pier for sunset. Hope you're having a good day babe. Talk tomorrow!
Attached was a photo. Dylan’s tanned, muscular arm was extended holding a frozen cocktail against a backdrop of turquoise water and palm trees. In the lower left corner of the frame, resting casually on the weathered wooden table next to his drink, was a woman’s hand with fresh crimson-red gel nails.
On her middle finger was a delicate platinum band adorned with tiny sapphires.
The Tiffany purchase.
I stared at the photograph for a long moment. I expected to feel that familiar, burning knot in my throat—the suffocating weight of betrayal that usually brings tears. Instead, I felt an almost euphoric lightness. It was the feeling a prisoner gets when the guard accidentally leaves the cell gate unlocked.
He had given me everything I needed. He had documented his own infidelity in high resolution, sent it across state lines, and paid for it with commingled funds while lying to my face about a family tragedy.
I replied with two words:
May you like
Enjoy yourself.
Then I blocked his number on my cell phone, powered it down, and swapped the SIM card for the new private number Sarah Vance had instructed me to purchase.
