On Monday morning, while Julian was at the office and the apartment was empty, I printed the records.
I printed the transfers, the lease, the emails I had found on the shared home account, the photographs from a public event where Lila's hand rested on his sleeve in a way that only made sense if you already knew. I laid it all out on the kitchen table, thirty-one pages, and I looked at it for a long time.
Then I did three things.
First, I called a lawyer. Not the Cross family's law firm, not anyone whose name had ever appeared in Margaret's address book. I found a woman named Diane Vaughn who handled family law and had once, years earlier, been described to me at a dinner as difficult. Difficult was what I needed. I made an appointment for Wednesday.
Second, I called my sister. It was
