“Yes.”
Our joint household account.
Emergency savings.
Tax documents.
Some investment statements.
Not my military retirement accounts.
Those were separate.
But enough.
I pulled out my phone.
I logged into our joint account.
Normal balance.
Then savings.
Normal.
Then the brokerage account.
I stared at the screen.
There was a margin loan.
$210,000.
Opened eight months earlier.
I had never authorized it.
My skin went cold.
I looked at Detective Keene.
“We have another problem.”
Within minutes, the financial-crimes unit became involved.
Detective Keene asked me not to confront Julian again.
He was still at the station.
Still claiming self-defense.
Still unaware that his story had begun collapsing.
The house was treated as a scene.
Officers returned to Mom’s residence.
They photographed the fireplace set.
It was brass-colored aluminum.
The “poker” weighed one pound, eleven ounces.
Not heavy.
Not iron.
No blood.
No damage.
