Chapter 3 - The Account I Wasn't Supposed to See
The ocean looked peaceful from the twelfth floor.
My marriage did not.
I sat on the balcony of my suite while Monica shared her screen.
“Recognize this?”
A transfer appeared.
$1,200.
Then another.
$900.
Then $2,400.
All from our joint household account.
All headed toward accounts I didn't recognize.
“How far back does this go?”
“That's what we need to determine.”
I rubbed my forehead.
Rodrigo and I had divided finances in what I had once considered a reasonable way.
We each had personal checking accounts.
We maintained a joint household account.
Mortgage, utilities, insurance, groceries, vacations.
I handled most budgeting.
Rodrigo handled investments.
That arrangement suddenly sounded insane.
“Can you tell where the money went?”
“Not yet.”
My phone rang.
Rodrigo.
I declined it.
Again.
Declined.
Then messages arrived.
You embarrassed me in front of my family.
Call me.
You need to cancel that hotel.
Then:
That corporate card is not yours.
I forwarded everything to Monica.
Her reply came immediately.
Do not respond emotionally.
I smiled.
She knew me.
So I responded with one sentence.
Please communicate regarding financial matters in writing.
Rodrigo called again.
I ignored him.
Then George called.
Ignored.
Then Lauren.
I hesitated.
Answered.
“Daniela?”
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded different.
No arrogance.
“Did Rodrigo really take your money?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't know.”
“I believe you.”
She exhaled.
“George told me you volunteered to stay here instead of the resort.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had.
“And the chores?”
Silence.
“That part was me.”
“At least you're honest.”
“I thought you agreed to help.”
“I arrived with a suitcase and discovered I had a job.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“That was awful.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
I hadn't expected that.
Then Lauren said something else.
“Daniela, there's something you should know.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“George and Rodrigo have been talking about a business.”
“What business?”
“I don't know exactly. Something with boats.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“How long?”
“Months.”
“How many?”
“Maybe six?”
The transfers Monica had found began six months earlier.
“What kind of boats?”
“They've talked about buying two charter boats and running fishing excursions.”
I looked toward the Gulf.
The pieces were aligning.
“Lauren, did George pay for this rental house?”
Another silence.
“I thought he did.”
“You thought?”
“He told me the business covered it.”
“What business?”
She didn't answer.
Because suddenly she understood.
The vacation house.
The boat deposit.
The fishing equipment.
Maybe none of it belonged to George.
Maybe Rodrigo had been financing everything.
With our money.
Lauren whispered, “Oh my God.”
I heard shouting behind her.
George.
“Who are you talking to?”
The call disconnected.
Thirty seconds later, Rodrigo texted me.
Stop interrogating my family.
That message told me Lauren had confronted George.
Good.
Monica called again that evening.
“I found something else.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course you did.”
“Remember the emergency savings account?”
“Yes.”
“Check it.”
I logged in.
My stomach dropped.
The balance should have been roughly $18,000.
It was $4,320.
I couldn't speak.
“Daniela?”
“Thirteen thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“He took thirteen thousand dollars.”
“Potentially more. We need statements.”
I walked onto the balcony.
Below me, people were laughing beside the pool.
A family walked toward the beach carrying towels.
Normal people having normal vacations.
For months, I had blamed myself for feeling financially stretched.
I had canceled dinners.
Skipped buying clothes.
Worked overtime.
Rodrigo had watched me do it.
And while I was saving fifty dollars here and eighty dollars there, he had apparently been siphoning thousands.
My sadness hardened.
“I want everything documented.”
“It will be.”
“I want the divorce filed.”
“Daniela—”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow.”
Monica paused.
“All right.”
I slept badly.
At 6:14 the next morning, somebody pounded on my hotel door.
Not knocked.
Pounded.
I looked through the peephole.
Rodrigo.
I didn't open it.
“Daniela!”
I called security.
“Go away.”
“We need to talk!”
“We can talk through attorneys.”
“This is ridiculous!”
His voice echoed down the hallway.
“You're throwing away eight years over money?”
That sentence erased whatever hesitation remained.
I opened the door but left the security latch engaged.
His face appeared through the gap.
“Eight years?”
“Yes!”
“You think this is about $2,850?”
He stared.
I continued.
“Where is the emergency fund?”
His face answered before his mouth did.
I felt strangely calm.
“Where is the money, Rodrigo?”
“Invested.”
“In what?”
“Our future.”
“What future?”
He glanced down the corridor.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Daniela.”
“Name the investment.”
He said nothing.
“Fishing boats?”
His face drained.
That was enough.
I closed the door.
He slammed his palm against it.
“Daniela!”
Security arrived seconds later.
I listened while he argued.
Then the hallway became quiet.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Monica.
Divorce petition drafted. Need final authorization.
I typed:
File it.
Then another notification appeared.
Not from Monica.
From my employer.
URGENT: Please contact Corporate Compliance immediately regarding financial activity connected to Rodrigo Morales.
I read it twice.
My husband wasn't employed by my company.
There was no reason Corporate Compliance should know his name.
Unless the money problem wasn't only inside our marriage.
May you like
And suddenly, the missing $13,000 looked small.
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